Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
by WonderfulCaricature
Summary: It's been three years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and Draco Malfoy is coping and just trying to get by without drawing attention to himself. Hermione Granger complicates this. Dramione.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey there, HP fandom, long time no see.**

 **This is set in early October of 2001, and it's pretty AU after the last chapter of Deathly Hallows (not including the Epilogue).**

 **Disclaimer: If I owned the HP universe, Cursed Child would have gone differently.**

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Pansy Parkinson had always believed she was meant for a life of grandeur. Until she left for Hogwarts, Pansy truly knew nothing other than the finest fabrics, richest tastes, and most well-to-do families. Her maternal grandmother used to throw the most lavish parties that often rivaled the scale of the Yule Ball or Ministry Galas. Pureblooded witches and wizards from all across Europe were invited and stayed for days on end to bask in the glory that was the Storm Estate in southern England. She remembered it would take at least a month to clear all the stragglers out before the elves were tasked with restoring the wards and cleaning spells in each room in wait for the next big event. If she could have, she would have been content to spend year after year there; but another party or another family always called her parents to some other end of the countryside to immerse themselves in a different expensively furnished manor.

For the longest time, all she wanted was that life back. The carefree nature of being young and ignorant in a room full of adults playing twisted games of power and popularity. To be naïve and not see that gloved hands only hid sharp claws or the hooved feet under the long and beautiful cloaks and gowns. She thought she would trade anything for the bliss that ignorance offered, because now that she was old enough to discern the monsters from the mice, she found herself resenting the gilded cage ensnaring her.

Smiling at the relatively new widower who was telling her what a beautiful woman she had grown into, Pansy cast a quick and discrete glance around the ridiculously adorned banquet hall of the Storm Estate to find some sliver of salvation. Of course she still desired wealth. What sane person wouldn't want the security Galleons provided? However, Pansy was not so desperate as to marry a man who had once courted her grandmother when she was Pansy's age.

"-likely to get a better offer, dove."

Pansy blinked and snapped her attention back to the man in front of her with a frown.

"I beg your pardon?"

Firewhiskey and tobacco assaulted her sense of smell when he leaned closer and repeated, "There's not a witch or wizard alive who isn't grateful for Mr. Potter. Publically, at least, right? We all know the brave souls who stood with the boy while cowards offered him up."

"Ah, yes, that we do," she agreed. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'm sure I can find a more attractive man to insult me."

"Miss Parkinson!" he called after her indignantly as she weaved through the crowd of gossipmongers.

The room was too hot, and the bitter October air was more preferable than the sharp eyes of miserable old bats circling through the estate.

"Bloody hounds," Pansy spat before pushing past a pair of couples to get to the balcony. "Merlin, preserve me," she muttered, leaning against the cast iron rail.

She almost sighed in relief when she caught a flash of familiar blonde hair. Her grandmother had told her that no one she knew would be in attendance.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Pansy greeted with a genuine smile.

"Oh, Pansy, darling," Narcissa clasped her hands, and Pansy felt more grounded than she had all evening. "How lovely it is to see you. I was just telling Lucius how grateful I am that your parents have been so kind to Draco."

"Miss Parkinson," Lucius nodded.

Pansy's heart dropped near to her gut, but she maintained a smile that betrayed nothing.

"They remembered how well you treated them after the First Wizarding War and said they would have felt ashamed of themselves had they not treated Draco with the same decency."

"It's very good of them," Lucius agreed. Pansy grinned at him.

As with most girls who had been in her House and year, she imagined, Pansy was somewhere between being completely in awe of Mr. Malfoy and utterly terrified. Her mother and father had painted such wild stories about a man who had so valiantly served under the Dark Lord with such strong conviction. She hadn't properly met the Malfoys until she was ten, so she had years of assumptions about Lucius built up in that time. He met each cold and proud one of them. Still, though, Pansy's parents raised her to aspire to aristocracy, and the Malfoys were what every aristocratic wizard ought to be. So Pansy had always pretended like she was nothing but awestruck by him and his family.

Looking back on it, Pansy supposed that why she took a strong liking to Draco. He had all of the coveted Malfoy traits with just a touch of softness from Narcissa.

"In truth, Miss Parkinson, we had expected our son to accompany you tonight."

"As did I," she replied. "You're always welcome to visit us, though," she added the offer out of courtesy. The Malfoys would never take her up on it, and it quelled any suspicions they may have held onto.

Lucius and Narcissa were too proud to admit being in public made them uncomfortable, so they managed to come up with a relatively believable fib that their freedom came at the cost of their free will. In the months immediately after their pardon, Narcissa complained to any pureblood who would listen that the Ministry had placed unfair restrictions on the Malfoys public exposure. She claimed they were, of course, allowed to make public appearances here and there, but for the most part, the governing body wanted them monitored and secluded to the Malfoy Manor. So the couple kept to themselves in the Manor, working with the most conservative number of House Elves and coming out only when they were likely to be in the company of those who had no room to pass judgement.

Wizarding London was not that place.

Honestly, even Pansy was hoodwinked when she first heard Narcissa's side of the story. It truly wasn't that unimaginable. However, the family actually walked out of the entire mess unscathed for the most part. Her own parents faced more repercussions than a slap on the wrist, but Draco, though somewhat reluctantly, told her that Potter owed his life to Narcissa. And that was all he said.

Pansy stayed with the Malfoys for the remainder of her time at the party. Whether or not they wanted to shoo her away, they didn't, and she was thankful for the space partygoers gave the Malfoys. There was no one to remind her of the past, and no one to imply her future prospects were limited. Only stoic Lucius Malfoy to sneer at any decrepit old man to walk their way and Narcissa to praise her in a manner her mother would never do.

After parting with her grandmother (and pocketing a pearl necklace that had been so carelessly left in her grandmother's unlocked jewel room), one of the staff saw her to the front door. She thanked them and waited until the door locked and the footsteps faded down the hall.

"Merlin," Pansy grunted as she snuck around back to the grove of apple trees which shielded the back end of the property from the rear windows of the estate.

Slipping out of her dress underneath her cloak, Pansy hung it on a low tree branch and quickly transfigured it back into the frock it had been before the evening started. With a little tremor in her hands, she pulled her clothes back on and made even quicker work of the cloak which hadn't been transfigured but charmed to confound anyone looking at it into thinking it was much more luxurious than it actually was. The moment the charm wore off, Pansy apparated, taking a handful of apples with her.

Draco was just getting out of the back room when he heard a loud _pop_ that usually preceded Pansy's appearance. She was the only person her knew who had such an obnoxious sound accompanying their apparation. And though it annoyed him more than it should have, the familiar noise was oddly comforting. He supposed it was a strength in numbers ordeal. Her ridiculous entrances reminded him that he still had someone to split rent with.

"You're late," he commented when Pansy waltzed in with a bunch of apples cradled in her arms.

"Evening, Bex," she smiled at the only other person at the bar. "Apple?"

"What kind?" the greying man asked.

"Stolen."

"The best kind," he responded while beckoning for one.

She dumped the rest into a bowl behind the bar and snatched the apron Draco threw at her.

"We'll talk later," she added in a whisper to Draco when she passed him.

Draco nodded and flicked his wand to fill up Bex's drink. He glanced around the pub, The White Wyvern, and noted a strange looking couple sitting in the far corner.

"Who's the pair by the door?" Draco asked Bex and Pansy as the latter concentrated on magically wiping down several of the tables without using her wand.

"Hell if I know," Bex frowned, throwing a look over his shoulder. "Too clean t' be here."

Pansy hummed in agreement and called out, "Oi! No loitering. Get a drink or get out, gits."

"To make room for all the customers?" the man asked, causing his companion to snicker.

Without a moment's hesitation, Bex flew off his seat, casting a spell towards the door which threw it open with brute force. The pair jumped, and the man let out an undignified squeak.

"Ain't no room for smart arse wankers here," Bex hissed. "Ye heard the lady. Now either buy yer date a drink or get out of my pub and take yer smart mouth to the Leaky Cauldron. Hear me?"

"I'll take two Firewhiskeys," the man responded quickly.

"That's what I thought."

Bex motioned for Draco to bring them while he stood over the couple, his hand held out for payment. Pansy smirked at Draco when she handed him the bottle of the pub's cheapest Firewhiskey and two glasses. When Bex pocketed the coin, Draco gave him the two glasses.

"Make sure ye tell yer mates what a great time ye had wastin' my time, got it?" Bex said before spitting in each glass and placing them in front of the couple.

"I love it when you do that," Pansy told Bex when he sat back on his stool.

Draco grinned but remained silent and kept his eye on the couple in the corner. The man had lowered the hood of his cloak and stared at his glass with a mixture of horror and disgust. It wasn't the first time Bex had done something like this, and it wasn't the first time he'd seen customers staring into their glass like that. He couldn't even call them patrons, because they never came back.

The situation wasn't ideal—working for Bex when he could spare the hours—but it was convenient. He was looking to escape the Manor, and Pansy had offered him the salvation of being back in society without drawing unwanted attention.

Months ago, Draco had been wandering through Knockturn Alley and only stopped in the pub for reprieve from the rain which had started. And low and behold, Pansy Parkinson, the self-proclaimed Queen of Slytherin herself, was behind the bar, making a show of mixing drinks to fill the tip jar. He hadn't seen her since her parents' hearing after the Battle of Hogwarts nearly three and a half years ago, and he had assumed she was living with her grandmother. He learned that her father had somehow convinced her mother to shoulder the blame for their share of war crimes. Mr. Parkinson plead guilty to some minor crime which was settled by lawyers and high ranking Ministry officials with too much to lose, and Mrs. Parkinson was committed to St. Mungo's—where, according to Pansy, they did nothing but make her crazy—without public knowledge or records. The Matron of Stone Estate was under the impression that her daughter had fled to another part of the world with her husband.

It hadn't made any sense to Draco when she first revealed her history to him. Pansy came from an extremely wealthy, old blood family. Even if the Ministry took money from their reserves to rebuild, the Parkinson's amassed wealth would hardly take a dent. He couldn't comprehend why Pansy was living in a small flat above a dirty pub she was working at to afford the aforementioned flat. All she had to do was tell the Matron, and she would be protected by the Stone's power and taken care of with their money.

But she had told Draco, "I'm free here. These people don't know who I am or what I've done. I'm just another wench to serve them drink while my cleavage pokes out of my top. It's not a great life, but it's my life."

Draco visited her a few more times before she offered him a place to stay. The Manor wasn't the easiest place to live, and there were moments where he could barely stand to look at his parents without some terrible memory rushing to the front of his memory. He didn't even give himself a moment to consider her offer.

They lived off whatever money they could get from the bar, where Pansy worked primarily and Draco sometimes. Most of the time, he worked mornings at Mulpepper's and evenings at Borgin and Burkes. Their combined income covered their weekly rent, food, and whatever they could manage to stow away for future use. It was hardly an exciting life, and the tedious repetition reminded him constantly of the excitement money could buy. But the predictability of home-work-home was a relief compared to the shadows lurking in the rooms at the Malfoy Manor. It was just an adjustment.

Besides, he quite liked being known without being recognized here. He imagined it's the freedom Pansy spoke of. His parents were under the impression he was living comfortably with Pansy in some upscale neighborhood in London. Who would they believe if someone claimed their son was working down in Knockturn Alley when he swore he was not? It wasn't as if they were in a rush to venture down for themselves, and they were definitely not ready to hire someone to scope out the area. He knew his parents wanted no reason to give people cause for speculation. They wanted to stay under the radar, just as he did. Soon, of course, they would want to visit Draco and Pansy, but Pansy had taken certain precautions in the event her grandmother wanted to drop by which would work just as well for his parents.

She had grown into quite the con artist.

The man in the corner plugged his nose and shot back both glasses while his companion started dry heaving. It caused Pansy squeal with laughter. Even Bex cackled as the pair rushed from the pub like a werewolf was chasing them.

After a few more patrons filtered in and out, Bex looked over at the dusty clock behind the bar. He patted the countertop and reminded Draco and Pansy to lock up and put the earnings in the safe.

"I'll take it to Gringotts in the morning," Draco said.

"Good boy," Bex replied clapping his shoulder. "Keep the loiterers out," he added and disappeared out the front door.

"Your parents were at the party," Pansy told Draco as she hoisted herself onto the bar.

Draco shifted uncomfortably and tucked a loose strand behind his ear. He noticed the potion Pansy put in it to darken it was starting to fade as it always did at the end of the day.

"I just think they miss you, Draco." Pansy gave him a sympathetic look. "Even Lucius was particularly chatty tonight. He just wanted to know if everything was going well for you."

"I swear I'll visit them soon."

"You don't have to promise me anything, Draco. If you don't want to visit the Manor, you don't have to. But perhaps a card? You have parents who genuinely love you."

"I know."

He took the cap Pansy offered him to hide the blonde that was showing at the tips.

"You clean up back there, and I'll man the bar. We don't get much foot traffic when it's cold and raining outside."

They didn't get much traffic anyway, Draco thought. The Wyvern got enough to sustain its business, but it wasn't the Leaky Cauldron. Not many respectable witches and wizards wandered in; and if they were respectable, they usually were lost. It was fine by him, though. The Wyvern had been around for a while, and as long as Bex was in charge, it wasn't going anywhere. And as long as Bex was attracted to Pansy, they weren't going anywhere.

He started fidgeting with his hair again. One of the benefits of working at Mulpepper's was that the owner gave Draco a hefty discount on ingredients, and Pansy took advantage of that benefit to make potions which concealed her natural hair color for a day. For twenty hours, six days a week, Pansy's dark hair was a dirty looking blonde. Draco noticed she frequently tried to drop her posh tone when she spoke to people, too, and though it was rough when he first found her, she was getting better at it. It was amazing what a difference such small alterations made. He really did admire her for all the effort she put into conserving her freedom.

As for his own attempts at blending in with the peasants, he simply let Pansy coerce him into darkening his hair. The potions she gave him never seemed to hold as well as hers did, so he preferred doing most of his work in the storage rooms of Borgin and Burkes where who he was, was quite obvious, but completely irrelevant. And unlike Pansy, Draco made no change to his voice. He didn't talk much, and he tried to use new terms to insult people when he did speak; but he saw no point in trying to pick up a new manner of speech.

Within ten minutes of leaving, Pansy rushed into the back room and pressed herself against the wall beside the archway. Draco sneered at her.

"Potter's here," she croaked.

"What?"

Draco glanced out at the group who had walked in a moment ago, and sure enough it was Scarhead and his little merry band of mates. All completely red-faced drunk and cackling like hyenas.

"We have to move."

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco replied.

Pansy fumbled with the rag in her hands before tossing it aside as she peered into the main room.

"Is this a joke, do you think?" she asked Draco. He stood in the threshold with his arms crossed, frowning at the giggling group. "Is Zabini back in town?" Pansy glanced around as if Blaise was hiding in some corner casting a spell.

"Just get out there," Draco urged. "If you don't act suspicious, they won't be suspicious."

Pansy nodded, and Draco followed her out with the bottles he could restock. She stiffly walked over to the table with a bowl of peanuts and a self-writing quill and parchment. The table erupted in cheerful babbles when she greeted them. Draco could see the tension in her shoulders, but no one at the table even seemed to register who was standing before them. Draco shook his head and started pulling out bottles he and Pansy would need for the drinks they group was calling out for.

Ginny Weasley was the loudest of them, shouting for a drink which Draco hated making. Her brother wanted a simple bottle of something "delectable" and wanted them to keep coming; while Potter requested an entire bottle of Firewhiskey, and Granger asked for two glasses. Pansy frowned over her shoulder at Draco as the quill scratched down what the last few people—Loony Lovegood and the two other Gryffindors neither Draco nor Pansy even remembered the names of—ordered.

"Loony knows," Pansy mumbled, coming to Draco's side and fiddling with the alcohol.

"Stop talking," he warned.

"Her father works for my grandmother," Pansy hissed in response.

"She'll be able to sense if you're panicking." He enchanted a tray and started placing the drinks on it as Pansy begrudgingly grabbed a bottle of Firewhiskey. "Just take this over with your normal, _charming_ attitude." When she still looked positively helpless, he assured her, "Your potion is still holding."

"Please," she quietly begged. "They have no loyalty to me."

"They're gratefulness to my family has already maxed out." After a beat, he consented, though, and told Pansy to start closing down in the back.

The tray followed him out to the table and set itself to serving the customers while Draco oversaw it.

"You lot are out rather late, aren't you?" he asked in a way he hoped passed for small talk.

"We are…" the she-weasel trailed off, looking over to the unnamed Gryffindors to finish her sentence.

"Pub crawling," the shorter of the two answer.

"Yes. Saved the best last, eh, Harry?"

"The Wyvern was recommended," Potter supplied.

Draco snorted, "By whom?"

The group glanced around at each other, and Draco wondered if they were even seeing clearly. Granger broke into a fit of giggles first, and all but Lovegood followed her. Loony watched Draco curiously.

"Have we met?" she finally asked.

He supposed it was for the best that he sent Pansy in the back to work.

"Unless you frequent here, I doubt it."

"Surely you went to Hogwarts. You have a very unique visage."

Draco pursed his lips and tested his willpower as the rest of the group took Loony's comments as an invitation to peer extensively at him.

"I must have one of those faces," he deflected with a forced smirk.

"I'd say," the she-weasel snickered, joined by Granger and the short Gryffindor.

Draco felt the back of his neck heating up, so he told them to enjoy the drinks and stole away before Lovegood could draw any more attention to him.

Pansy was finishing up with the dishes when he ducked into the back room with her. She didn't say anything as she took the tray from him and added it back to the stack of clean trays. Draco left her again and settled behind the bar, waiting for the group to either pay or ask for more.

He watched them with a certain level of resentment. They seemed to have no care in the world. They won the big battle and could now retire safely. None of them would have to worry about never getting hired, or even a mere tattoo removal. They could also stay up as late as they pleased and not worry about getting up before the birds to work. He was paying for his and his family's prejudices and mistakes that stretched back generations, though. He could sleep when he was dead.

Lovegood caught his gaze as he continued staring at the group without really seeing them. Her direct eye contact startled him, though, and he faltered before he could compose himself. _You're just being paranoid,_ Draco thought to himself. Pansy's nerves were infectious, and he was placing unlikely assumptions on Loony Lovegood without a solid base. Draco's anxieties settled back down, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement which seemed to sate whatever curiosity Lovegood had. After a few more moments of taking in the rest of their group, he turned his attention back to his own issues.

Theodore Nott needed a potion order by noon tomorrow, so Draco had to get to Mulpepper's a good hour earlier to finish what he didn't get done this afternoon. He jotted down a note to himself with the quill and parchment Bex kept behind the bar to count tabs when customers opened them. Nott was interning at St. Mungo's, hoping to transfer from a hospital in Moscow he commuted to and from every day. Unfortunately for Pansy, Nott's primary Healer worked closely with Mrs. Parkinson. It didn't really take a clever bloke like Theodore long to track Pansy down when he sorted fact from the fiction the Parkinson's were spreading.

Despite her initial trepidations, Pansy believed Nott was an honest enough mate to keep this to himself. Draco supposed Nott also knew the consequences of crossing someone like Pansy.

"Oi!" someone among Loony and the Gryffindors called for his attention.

They were all getting to their feet. At different paces and imbalances, but rising nonetheless.

"'S'great, mate," the taller Gryffindor saluted him half-heartedly.

"A fine establishment," the shorter one agreed slowly.

"Make sure ye button yer mitten afore ye hit the ground," the she-weasel giggled.

"I don't hit the ground," Lovegood responded with a bit of a sluggish tongue. She grinned at something and then repeated, "I don't hit."

Draco started corralling them out as the weasel started mumbling about how he was going to be sick. He sighed as he locked the bolts behind them and placed Bex's usual enchantment on the knob.

Pansy finally showed her face after she heard the final lock click. She stood by the back room and _Accio -_ ed the remaining dishes while Draco cast one spell to put the chairs up on the other tables and another to clear the trash the group left.

He immediately froze the second charm when one of their napkins was unearthed beneath the rest of the bottles and cracks peanut shells. A small motion sketch of a ferret being bounced around played in a loop on the napkin. Draco grabbed the napkin from the air and quickly resumed the spell, casting a cautious glance in Pansy's direction as he stuffed the note in the apron pocket. He would deal with the Gryffindors later.

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 **Ehhhh?**

 **Reviews are welcome, and I am grateful.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the alerts, favorites, and/or reviews! I promise I've no plans of giving up on this. I just get busy with school and have to steal moments to write.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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Draco stared blearily up at the rotting boards that separated the attic from the small dining room he and Pansy repurposed as his own bedroom. It didn't matter how long he had been doing it for, his body was still not quite used to him standing on his feet most of the day. Every night it felt like pure bliss just to be able to lie in bed, but he was always robbed of that feeling four or five hours later when he had to be up for morning work at Mulpepper's.

The Mulpepper's were usually in at sunrise to prepare for the rush of students, professors, aides, Healers, and alchemy enthusiasts who packed the store from eight in the morning until noon. Their ingredients were always fresh, so most of the lot came in early to get what they could pay for or they would have to wait until the next morning's stock. It was Draco's chore to make sure everything the Mulpepper's had ordered arrived in pristine condition, to set aside orders which had been made in advance, and (with the couple's aging) to brew any potions which were beyond your simple first through third year experience. In return, they were generous with their discount, and they allowed him free reign of the store.

He frequently thought of quitting. It was tedious work where the hours had a tendency to drag on if you weren't busy and speed by if you were. Which, ordinarily, would not have been a problem. Pansy loved it when time quickly rolled on without her being aware of it. But Draco had to go straight from the alchemy shop to Borgin and Burkes with no time to spare. So if he was held over at Mulpepper's, who operate on salary, he was losing money at Borgin and Burkes.

Draco liked working at the Mulpepper's, though. Loved it, really. Potions had always been his favorite class at Hogwarts, and he truly enjoyed the concentration and skill that came with brewing the perfect concoction.

Borgin, however, paid Draco nightly, and he would be lying if he said that working with the Dark Arts objects didn't fascinate him the tiniest of bits. Although from time to time he worked the main floor, Borgin mostly had Draco researching and tending to the inventory in their sub-terrain storage rooms that spanned the entire area of the building and the one behind it. It's what Lucius had wanted to do until he found himself in a position where bureaucracy was a better fit for his secrets.

All things considered, Draco thought as he pushed himself out of bed, he supposed he was lucky. Sure, he was living in a shit hole, but he was living in a shit hole in Diagon Alley. Sure, he was working three jobs for meager pay, but he had jobs which were paying him. And he wasn't alone. He had someone who understood that burning need to be who you are but separate from the world. He had someone who understood the culture which surrounded being a rich pureblood, but someone who also wanted to take a reprieve from that life.

Pansy was deep in sleep when he pulled on some clothes that didn't stink and grabbed a robe that wasn't disgusting. Her room was less of a room than Draco's. It was its own separate room, naturally, but it had no door and no window which lead Draco to believe it was actually a closet. They had shared a bed at one point. Bex was using the dining room to store bottles, because the inn's storage room was too cluttered and dirty to keep anything. So Pansy and Draco slept in the same bed, each of them as close to the opposite edge as they could get like awkward cousins being forced to share. When neither of them were getting much rest from fighting over the covers, they spared a few hours a day for a week to clear out the storage and then transfer everything from the dining room to it. Draco slept on the dining room floor for another two weeks before he could afford to buy a flimsy mattress off of Bex.

Draco was fastening his cloak when Pansy began to stir at the lingering smell of coffee he had brewed. She sent a quick glance his way before throwing herself back under the covers for another hour.

"Mornin'," the beggar across the street greeted Draco once he left the inn with yesterday's earning tucked away.

"Tom," Draco replied and handed him a mug of coffee. "Try to stay out of the cold, yeah?" he added and received a grunt in response.

Gringotts was usually empty when he ran these errands for Bex. No witch or wizard in their right mind was up as early as he or the goblins. After the previous night's abnormality, Draco didn't know why he expected the morning following to go off without a hitch.

"I got a letter here, sir," Draco heard as he was filling out the paperwork involved with making a deposit for a business. He paused a little and looked up at the goblin who was watching him write with an astounding lack of interest. "I thought my wife took care of all the paperwork last week."

The goblin motioned for him to continue with his own paperwork, but Draco couldn't contain his curiosity and tried to surreptitiously peer at the fuss being made several paces away from him. Neville Longbottom in all his mumbling glory stood in front of a particularly nasty looking goblin, pointing out all the things he was confused about in a letter the former had received. Draco turned back to his own goblin and hastily finished filling out the necessary lines.

"This world's gone bloody mad," he mumbled to the goblin who made a noise which Draco took as a sign of agreement.

Had someone knocked Fate upside its head? Draco wondered. He had gone months without seeing people he hadn't wanted to see, and now within ten hours, he was seeing masses of them. It was mad.

He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head as he passed behind Longbottom and the arguing goblin, silently making his way out of the bank to avoid any unwanted attention. Draco guessed seeing someone in Gringotts wasn't all that unexpected. Unpleasant but not unexpected.

The inn was another story. Unpleasant and unexpected.

Draco slipped into the alleyway beside Mulpepper's where a locked crated waited for him with today's supplies. He pulled the envelope off the crate and charmed the parcel to follow after him. Their supplier had added a few more jars of scarab beetles to get rid of the surplus she had. The crate set itself down on a table to the side and started unpacking itself as Draco rid himself of his cloak in exchange for the apron he wore while working on potions.

"Let's see what we have," he mumbled to himself, opening the cabinet where the last of Nott's potions had been settling. Taking one of them out and noting the jet black color of it, Draco added, "Hello, beautiful."

What Nott needed these potions for, Draco couldn't say. And, honestly, he didn't want to know. It took twelve hours just to brew five of them, and Nott wanted fifteen. It was a potent brew that was supposed to suspend you at the brink of death. Motionless but able to feel Death's sharp nails at the nape of your neck, and you were helpless to do anything about it. You wouldn't be able to utter a sound or blink an eye. You were just suspended in complete terror.

Draco frowned as he pulled the rest out and set them with the others that had been waiting for the last steps. He grabbed the ingredients from the basket and ground them until they were a fine, white powder. Out of all the potions he's made, he liked this one the best. The color fascinated him. The potion was currently a jet black, and even after the powder was added, it would remain blacker than black. After he set fire to the thin and unseen layer of grime at the top, it would remain blacker than black. If anything, Draco thought it turned a shade darker, like looking into the abyss. There was a sort of beauty in the horror or it.

Nott showed up at the back door two minutes after Draco corked the last potion. He gave the door two sharp taps, as he had always done back at Hogwarts, and stood patiently with his hands behind his back. Draco pushed the door open enough to usher Nott in and lock it back up.

"Fine timing," he commented and motioned towards the brewing room. "They were quite interesting to make."

"No doubt," Nott agreed. "They're quite interesting to use."

"No doubt," Draco parroted. He handed one of them over to Nott to inspect.

"Marvelously done, Draco," he praised, holding the potion up to eye level and turning it about, "truly."

"I'm good at what I do."

"That's putting it mildly."

"As much as I love the compliments, the pay will speak louder."

"Of course," Nott nodded, and Draco lead him into the main room. "You're alright?"

"As well as I can be," Draco said, thumbing through the pages of the order book. "Actually," he added and dog-eared an order he needed to work on today. "You'll never believe who stopped by the pub last night."

"Yeah?"

"Potter and his gaggle."

"No," Nott replied disbelievingly.

"No, mate, honest. Pansy nearly lost her mind. They were all pissed and probably couldn't tell their heads from their arses, but they were there."

"Damn."

"You said it," Draco responded and turned the order book to face Nott when he found the page. He gave him a self-inking quill, and Nott signed off that he received the order before giving Draco the stack of Galleons. "Come back if you need anything else, mate."

"You and Pansy ought to come by my flat sometime," Nott offered. "You can apparate right to the back door. It's out of the way, and most everyone keeps to themselves. Just come for some tea or coffee."

"I don't know," Draco hesitated. "Time's money, and we don't have a lot of either."

"An hour of your time, Draco."

"I'll talk to Pansy and send you an owl either way."

"Good," Nott smiled and gathered up the box of his potions. "Take care."

Draco let him out the front door and the locked it behind him. He still had another fifteen minutes before the Mulpepper's would show up and another hour or so before the shop would open.

The smell of baked goods wafted into the back room the moment after the front door opened with the Mulpepper's arrival, albeit late. Merrick Mulpepper smiled at Draco as he walked into the back room with a basket hanging from one arm while his cane felt the way before him. The old man didn't usually bake, so Draco treasured the days which he did. Mulpepper could never bake just enough for himself and his wife.

"You've been busy this morning," Mulpepper said as he set the baked goods down. Draco greedily grabbed a roll.

"Likewise, old man."

Mulpepper hummed.

"Maude wants to see you when you've gotten the new supplies stocked."

"Already finished, and I fronted the floor after closing yesterday."

"Excellent boy."

Maude Mulpepper was the primary owner of the shop. She was a brilliant potioneer with a knack for the Wolfsbane potion. She was a short woman—though at least a head taller than her husband—and rather quiet, but Draco wouldn't want to cross her. Maude took great pride in her shop, and she would be damned if anyone working for her didn't meet the standards she set for herself.

She was up on the second level where they kept the premade potions when Draco walked back into the main room.

"How did Theodore Nott's order go?" she asked as he ascended the steps.

"It went well," Draco told her. "He was pleased with the product."

"Good. I won't lie and say I wasn't worried when it came in," she admitted. "It's a tricky potion."

"It was a nice challenge."

Maude rearranged a few potions on the Healers display and asked Draco if he was happy working at Mulpepper's. The question took him by surprise, and he wasn't sure how it was a relevant one. The immediate answer was 'yes', of course, but Draco hesitated to answer. Did he not appear happy? Sure, he was quiet and kept to himself when he could, but he didn't really think his silence translated into discontent. Maude didn't look as if she was asking a trick question, though, so Draco answered honestly.

"But you don't much care for working the floor," she stated.

"If we're being candid," Draco replied, "not particularly, no."

"I thought as much," Maude said. Draco watched her warily, and she caught the look and gave him a rare, comforting smile in return, "Don't look so fretful, dear: if I didn't want you here, I would have fired your bum months ago."

"I do enjoy working here," Draco pressed.

"And I enjoy you working here, dear." Maude motioned for Draco to follow her down to the main floor. "The thing is, is that we're doing really well for ourselves, and Merrick and I are thinking we want to expand in the next couple years or so." Draco helped her pull back the drapes and tie them off. There was already a small queue of customers waiting outside. "If we do, we need someone making the potions for both shops, and we just don't see how you could run the floor and make the potions."

"Are you promoting me to potions' master?" Draco asked, a little dubious.

"It's more of a lateral shift, really," Maude mused. "But the position is yours all the same, if you'll take it."

"Of course, yes, gladly."

Maude cracked another smile but stifled it quickly. "Don't think this means you can laze around up here. We'll still need to hire someone to replace you on the floor."

Draco was ecstatic. It wasn't so much a triumph for his bank account, but it meant something to him that the best potion shop in Knockturn Alley wanted him to be its potions' master. And if he ever went on to another career, telling an employer he was a potions' master at Mulpepper's was much more prestigious than stock boy.

He didn't tell Pansy, though. He wouldn't actually take the position and its responsibilities until they replaced him on the main floor, and he didn't want to take the chance that the Mulpeppers wouldn't find someone they both liked. In the week after Maude told Draco about her decision, the couple had a string of applicants coming in at all hours of Draco's shift. Merrick said there were a few they liked, but no one had really stuck out as someone they could all easily work with. Maude was a little more honest and told him that she couldn't stand half the tossers who applied and could only stomach a quarter of the rest.

A full week after Maude started looking for new hires, she came in an hour late with one.

Merrick and Draco were brewing an order of Amortentia which they had been putting off for as long as they could. They never received many orders for it. Most people went to Diagon Alley for it. But when they did get an order, the customers raved about the scent in the air and wanted to know if they could get their hands on one of whatever they were smelling; so it meant Draco, Merrick, and Maude spent a good month brewing placebo potions and selling them for half price until the smell of Amortentia dissipated.

"We ought to limit how much of these we make, old man, or the crowd will be falling over themselves for you."

Merrick chuckled, "Maude would beat them back with my own cane." The front door's bell rang, and Merrick added, "Speak of the Devil."

Draco grinned at him.

"'Ello, my love," Merrick greeted Maude as Draco scraped the rape honey into his cauldron.

"Merrick, Black," Maude said curtly, "this is the new hire, Ginevra."

Draco's hand stilled in the process of stirring the honey in.

"Please, it's Ginny."

This was a joke.

"Merrick mostly deals with our suppliers and, I suppose, community outreach. Black here—turn around, boy—is our potions' master. You'll be taking over all his main floor and stocking duties," Maude explained.

Draco eased the fire under the cauldron and wiped his hands off on the apron. He kept his face controlled when he turned around and, sure enough, met Ginny Weasley's gaze.

Hadn't he paid his debt in life? Hadn't he put blood and sweat into washing away the sins of his past? He'd been keeping his nose down and himself out of trouble. He didn't go out of his way to insult people. He hadn't thought or used the word _Mudblood_ in what felt like ages. He was just living his life. Like a monk, anyone of his birth and status would say. Yet Merlin had thought it fit to test him with Ginny bloody Weasley?

He should have taken care of his accent like Pansy had.

What was Ginny bloody Weasley even doing working in Knockturn Alley? Was this some belated rebellion phase? Didn't shock her family enough at Hogwarts on account of the war, so she needed to take up with dodgy wizards in an even dodgier part of town?

"Good to meet you," Ginny offered, outstretching her hand.

Draco glanced at it for a second before reluctantly accepting the shake.

"You work at you The Wyvern, yeah?"

He inclined his head.

"He's a man of many words as you can see," Maude scowled. "Come on now, Ginevra. Let's get on with a tour. There'll be time later for you to pester Mr. Black."

"I don't like her," Draco told Merrick as soon as the door swung shut behind the women.

"You don't know her," Merrick replied, and Draco kept himself from snorting. "She has a radiant aura."

"Do you know who that is, old man?"

"Our new employee."

"That's Ginny Weasley, that is."

"Never heard of her."

"You're daft."

"I'm blind but not daft, boy. We're looking to expand, and a hero from the Battle of Hogwarts is looking for work. If that ain't fortuitous, I don't know what is."

Draco shook his head and turned back to his cauldron. The world was going bloody mad.

Ginny hovered nearby him for the duration of his shift at Mulpepper's. She didn't talk to him much outside of asking a question here and there. Mostly she interacted with the customers Draco never talked to, and the ones he did exchange conversation with, she watched him keenly. He took the small moments of reprieve he had from her to check and make sure his hair potion was holding in the dark color and that his complexion was grimy enough to hide the generations of fine breeding.

He supposed he would have to talk to her sooner or later. Draco Malfoy would be unkind to her, but this knew working man in Knockturn Alley had to at least be impartial. So he asked her if she had any questions while they were going through the order book and the particulars of the forms. She seemed to take it as a sign that she could talk to him and then spent the next fifteen minutes going on about how she couldn't quite put her finger on the smell which was lingering in the air. The smell of a broomstick, rhubarb pie, and the lingering scent of a one galleon cologne on a worn grey sweater, Ginny mused; and suddenly Draco felt he knew more about Harry Potter than he really cared to know.

"Are you related to any of the Blacks of 12 Grimmauld Place in London?" she asked when he took her in the back room to box an order.

"No, I'm sure not."

"Are you? Sure, that is. You have a familiar look about you."

"I've not heard of any such people."

"Did you not go to Hogwarts? You sound like you grew up here, but I can't recall ever seeing you."

"Oh, leave Mr. Black be, Ginny," Merrick said from the corner where he was bottling the morning's Amortentia potions. "He's got to maintain some of his mystique."

When his break came and two long blocks separated him and Ginny bloody Weasley, Draco sank to the ground in an alleyway not far from a pastry shop he sometimes found Nott in. He tore his cap from his head and ran his shaky fingers through his hair. It was a bloody mess. He knew things at Mulpepper's were getting too comfortable and too good to be safe. He should have expected some kind of monster to pop out at him.

Pansy would probably take it harder than he had, but she would also know what to do. She was more resourceful than he was, and she seemed to prepare for every doomsday situation. He wasn't sure working alongside Harry Potter's girlfriend was one of those, but she surely had a plan all the same.

After allowing himself to wallow in self-pity for a few more moments, Draco pushed himself back to his feet. Maude wouldn't forgive him for tardiness, and he didn't want his shock to detract from the good record he had with the Mulpeppers. The situation wasn't ideal, of course, but he and Pansy would take it in stride just as they always did. Or they could always move, he supposed.

* * *

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	3. Chapter 3

**You all are truly the best. Thank you for giving this story a chance! I'm glad you're sticking around.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

He hated to admit it, but Draco rather liked working with Ginny Weasley. She was a hard worker, dealt fairly well with the customers, and showed up at the same time he did to get a jump on her chores. She complained about the meager pay, but so did he. Draco also expected her to rave about being Potter's girlfriend, but in the days she had been working at Mulpepper's, she had only mentioned him once in passing. He didn't even remember what the comment had been, just that it barely registered with him when it happened.

Ginny was talkative, of course, but the longer she talked, the less Draco cared. He had been listening to the same voices on repeat since he arrived in Knockturn Alley that hearing someone else's opinions and idle conversation was a nice change. Even if that person was a Weasley. Anyway, she was surprisingly astute for a Weasley. Draco liked to think that was the Black blood in her—they were some sort of cousins, weren't they?

Draco hadn't yet told Pansy he was working with Ginny. He didn't want to worry her until he had to, and he sort of enjoyed this little blast from the past in a way Pansy wouldn't. She had taken Nott's appearance hard enough, and Draco didn't think Ginny Weasley would be a welcome change for her.

Towards the end of October, Borgin and Burkes had closed for the day for some reason or another, and Draco wished he could be more upset about the loss of wages; but he desperately needed the break. A small grin spread over his face as he read the scribbled note from Borgin.

"Why, Mr. Black," Ginny said, grabbing his attention from the note, "I don't think I've ever seen you so happy."

He coughed and swallowed his smile, turning back to the potion he was in the middle of brewing.

"A note from your sweetheart?" the old man teased.

"Violet isn't my sweetheart," Draco mumbled, speaking of Pansy. She thought she had been clever in picking a name. "The barmaid," he added in clarification for Ginny.

"Oh, but why not? She's so lovely." Ginny said and then threw Draco a face when he couldn't refrain from barking out a laugh. Would those words still hold true if Ginny knew it was Pansy she was speaking of?

"We're not interested in each other."

Ginny made a noise as though she didn't quite believe him but let the issue go. She picked up the order she came back for and went back into the main room. The old man smirked at him playfully and followed Ginny, smacking his cane roughly against whatever was in his path. He liked making the newer customers uncomfortable.

The napkin from that first night the Gryffindors had reentered his life remained safely tucked between his mattress and frame back at the Wyvern. Draco had ruled out Ginny being the one to draw it the other week. She had been the only one up front when a customer with three eyes and adorned like a muggle Christmas tree apparently came in, and Ginny tried to draw a picture of this man when no one else believed her. Her picture was just a mess of lines and shapes that barely resembled a person. Honestly, his Aunt Bella—who swore the only artistic talent she had was with Unforgivable Curses—probably could have drawn a better picture.

Perhaps, Draco thought, his belief that Ginny wasn't the one to draw the revealing picture was one of the reasons he enjoyed working with her. He was still Draco Malfoy, but she had no idea.

He would be lying if he said that some of those old prejudices he had grown up knowing had completely left him. Even in his current station, he somehow found room to mentally nitpick some of the things he saw Ginny wear, do, or say.

Her cloak, for example, had driven him mad. It was a hand-me-down, naturally, and in worse condition than either Draco or Pansy's own cloaks. The clasp was a couple weeks away from completely giving out; the hood had a large rip which was haphazardly stitched back up; and the length was far too long for her and had been poorly hemmed with some sort of tape. For days on end, Draco would frown at the cloak each time he was alone in the back room and working on a potion.

It was during one of these sessions, several days ago, Draco noticed an ' _F'_ sewn into the inside pocket where a wand could be stored. He went through most of the day unaware until realization hit him when he was cleaning up before his break that the cloak had probably belonged to her brother. Draco didn't know if he felt worse for all the terrible and baseless thoughts he had surrounding Ginny and the cloak, or that he probably would have continue thinking them had he not seen the ' _F'_ when Ginny shook her cloak out.

There was a little bakery nearby the shop that didn't cost too much, so Draco went and bought a couple pastries for the two of them to share. Ginny was absolutely thrilled when he offered them to her, and Draco tried to stomach the sweets to hide the guilt that didn't go away until he was elbow deep in Dark Arts artifacts later that night.

Since then, he had been trying to make a conscious effort to not make assumptions about Ginny whenever she said or did something that made him roll his eyes.

The pink potion in his cauldron began boiling in a rolling bubble, so Draco took the polished stone from his pocket and plunked it into the middle of the concoction. It let out a low groan and rippled. He wafted the fumes which rose as the new bubbles coming up started turning the potion a dark pink color. When the color was the darkest pink it could get, Draco _Accio-_ ed the stone out and waited until the potion changed back to its original pink. It was some sort of potion for indigestion. The witch who ordered it called it _Pepto._

"Well, that's pretty," Maude said, entering the back room as Draco was bottling the potion. "It looks like bubble gum."

"Well, it doesn't smell like it," Draco responded.

Maude nodded and told Draco to come out front when he finished corking and storing the potions.

"We're getting overrun, so I need you to take care of the orders while Ginny focuses on cashing people out."

"I'll be right there," he complied.

Maude was right. The front room was stuffed with people. A customer could barely turn around without elbowing someone in the gut or back. Most of them were talking excitedly with each other and pointing to Ginny like she was some sort of exotic animal on display. The Wizarding World seemed to catch up with the latest news that Ginny Weasley was working at a potion shop in Knockturn Alley. He was just amazed it took so long.

Draco shuffled past Ginny to get to the end of the counter they shared.

"It's mad," Ginny told Draco.

"It's not every day a war hero slums it with the riff raff."

"I'm not slumming," she snapped, taking Draco aback. She added to the customer, "Two galleons, please."

Draco watched Ginny out of the corner of his eye as he got to the queue in front of him. Most of his people were medical professionals who were stocking up for the coming holiday which always saw the oddest incidents land people in the hospital. He could take their orders in his sleep. Ginny, however, looked flustered between the line of people she was dealing with and Draco's comment. He wondered if he should apologize. But why would he? What else would you call it when a famous and heroic witch chooses to work in the Dark part of Diagon Alley instead of doing whatever it was she was doing? Charity?

He tore off a proof of order for a customer and told Ginny he hadn't meant to offend her. She grinned at her own customer, handing him a bag of ingredients while telling Draco it was fine and that she hadn't meant to snap at him.

"Next!" Draco barked, grabbing a new bottle of ink.

"Good morning," the customer chirped, and Draco swore he felt his heart stop for a moment. "I'd like to speak with your potions' master."

"Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed, her cheer restored with Granger's appearance. Draco, on the other hand, mentally cursed every deity and great witch and wizard who had ever lived. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"Kreature's worried about Winky, so I told him I'd find a remedy."

Draco pursed his lips. Of course she was here on an errand for a House Elf.

"Well, you've come to the right place—I'm sorry. You need a special license to purchase that potion—Mr. Black is a fine potions' master."

"You're the potions' master?" she asked Draco.

He thought she sounded a little incredulous which rubbed him the wrong way, more than he cared to admit. Sure, Lucius may have been a perpetual thorn in the side of the Hogwarts' administrative body, but Draco was a fine student by himself. There's no such thing as a stupid Malfoy. He may not have worked too hard for his House Points, but his marks were a different story.

Nevertheless, he gave Granger a curt nod.

"Have you ever made potions for House Elves? They have a very particular system and can't process some ingredients as humans and centaurs can. Not to mention the difference in measurements because of the varying levels of potency."

"And the ingredients which are harmless to us but could kill them in an instant. Yes, I'm aware of the differing physiology between mankind and Elves," he responded stiffly.

"I promise you, Hermione, he's very talented."

Draco, uncomfortable with the small smile Granger had on her face, impatiently dipped the quill in ink and began filling out the order form. He just wanted to get Hermione Granger out of the shop as quick as he possibly could. He almost preferred the prospect of Loony Lovegood knowing his secret over Hermione bloody Granger. Loony was mad, but at least she wasn't insufferable.

"Very well," Hermione consented, stepping closer to the counter. Draco fidgeted with the cap on his head. "My friend is going through withdrawals. She was addicted to a substance and quit abruptly, but for the past few weeks, she hasn't been able to shake the effects: which are night terrors, sweats, headaches, and chundering bile."

He jotted the notes down on the page and thought about the same problem they had in his Third Year. One of their House Elves had gotten addicted to Firewhiskey after his father freed Dobby, and, after a while, Narcissa threatened to terminate the Elf's service if he didn't shape up. So the rest of their Elves got rid of all his access to alcohol. He remembered that he could hear the House Elf sobbing at any given hour in the day; and on more than one occasion, Draco saw him looking like Death reincarnated when he passed by their quarters out of morbid curiosity. Even the Dark Lord looked healthier than that Elf had. Regardless, the Elf was gone when Draco returned home for holiday.

"What was the substance?" he asked.

"Butterbeer."

Draco glanced up at her, and Hermione shrugged.

"It didn't take much for her to get drunk."

"Apparently not," Draco muttered.

She produced a small roll of parchment paper and passed it to Draco, saying, "I came up with a list of potions which I think may help. I don't expect a potion to cure what ails her, but I think we can at least relieve her pain." Hermione pointed to the third potion on the list after Draco unrolled it. "I wasn't sure about this one," she added, leaning against the counter. "I think the Fern Rot may produce unexpected side effects since her immune system is pretty weak already. But I'll let you make that call, since you are the potions' master."

Draco looked at her critically, but Hermione just smiled good-naturedly. She had to know. She was too friendly, too smile-y. No one looked as cheery as she did. She was a schoolgirl who knew a secret that no one else did. It was a sly and proud sort of look. Not even Hermione Granger was immune to those kinds of feelings.

So he goaded her.

"I can see you weren't an adept student at Care of Magical Creatures," he said, making an illegible note on the parchment which served no purpose other than to rile Granger up.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione replied with thinly veiled indignation.

"Or Potions for that matter," he added while jotting down another note. "Some of these would sooner turn her into a mumbling mess than restore any of her energy. Three would surely get rid of her night terrors, but she would be speaking in riddles for the rest of her life—which would be short considering Fern Rot is a slow poison for goblins and Elves."

"I'll have you know I achieved 'Outstanding' in both subjects. What did _you_ score in Care of Magical Creatures?" she added petulantly.

"Is there a problem here?" Maude interrupted, coming up beside Hermione. Draco blew on the ink as she told him there was still quite a queue.

"Of course not," Draco told Maude. "Just a tricky order."

"Well, be on with it."

Hermione signed the order form when he presented it to her.

"Price is no concern. I'll pay what I have to for her health. Please utilize whatever knowledge and resources you have at your disposal. Ginny can contact me if you have questions about Winky to a make the best product."

"Come back at the end of the week, and I'll have something."

She nodded and thanked him before saying goodbye to Ginny—who was moving through her customers with no problem—and taking her leave.

"The famous Hermione Granger," Draco commented, earning a grin from Ginny.

"You'll never meet anyone more dedicated to House Elves' rights or wellbeing."

With Hermione gone, getting through the rest of the queue was easy work. No one else was as particular with their orders as she had been, and no one else cared to engage him in conversation. Nearly an hour before his shift ended, anyone making any order had cleared out of the shop, leaving most of the floor open for people who were just browsing or coming in to get a look at Ginny.

Maude took over for Draco and allowed him to take the order book into the back to get started on the bulk of the orders which could be filled easily. He wrote a note for their supplier, listing all the ingredients they would need as soon as possible and all the phials or jars he would need for the upcoming weeks. Once November came, they would hit a small lull in the foot traffic in the shop, but everything would pick back up again in time for the holiday season. Having Ginny around would be something of a blessing for that. Especially when the Mulpeppers got around to opening that new shop they were planning on.

The old man came into the back room at the end of Draco's shift to help him put away the potions he had out, and set aside the orders that would be picked up after he left.

"Tell your sweetheart hello for me," the old man teased.

Draco rolled his eyes but let the jest go as he left the shop, heading towards a café which was always closed when he got out of Borgin and Burkes. He always smelled their mix of teas whenever he passed it, and today would be the first day he could indulge himself.

He unclasped his cloak when he walked into the café. The man working the floor nodded to a table in the corner which Draco took gladly. It was out of the heavy traffic and away from the window.

When he was living back at the Manor, Draco used to take tea with his mother (or coffee if Narcissa was especially peeved) every day he was home from Hogwarts for the summer or on holiday. She always took it with one cube of sugar and just a splash of milk. Whenever Lucius was in the company of others, he would only take it with some milk; but Draco knew he slipped the kitchen Elves a few extra sweets to bring him tea which was already sweetened before he put even more sugar in it when he was served in front of everyone else. Draco smiled to himself.

"Anything for you, mate?" the man working the floor asked.

"Some tea, if you would," Draco replied and then added, "just a cup." The man nodded and moved on to another table.

Perhaps Pansy was right. Maybe he did need to visit his parents at some point. He did miss them terribly. He wanted to tell Narcissa about his lateral promotion, about his ludicrous luck working with Ginny Weasley, and about all the squalor conditions he's found himself in. He wanted to tell Lucius about all the potions he made and all the artifacts he handled and researched during his time with Borgin. He wondered, though, if they would even talk to him after hearing that he hadn't been living as they thought.

He stared dismally at his tea when it was put in front of him and waved away the sugar and milk when it was offered. How could he stand to be in his parents' poor graces? He was the only thing they had, and they were the only ones he had.

Draco roughly rubbed his face and then glanced over at the door when the little bell above it chimed. His body betrayed him, and he blanched for a moment at the sight of Hermione Granger breezing in with a burst of cold air. This was a joke or a dream, or he had to be out of his bloody mind. He stiffened up and tried to recompose himself while keeping track of her out of the corner of his eye.

She spotted him quickly and smiled like she was seeing a friend instead of a nervous man who was trying to maintain his cool. Hermione asked one of the workers something before she closed the distance between them and settled into the chair across from him.

"Are we going to talk about why Draco Malfoy is living like a pauper in Knockturn Alley?"

"A Malfoy living like a pauper?" Draco responded blandly. "That ought to be a sight."

"I'm rather interested in hearing the story behind it." Hermione took off her gloves and stowed them away in one of her cloak's pockets. Draco watched her emotionlessly. "Especially since Narcissa Malfoy gave Harry and Ginny the impression he's living finely in some uppity neighborhood elsewhere."

"I'm sure it's quite the tale."

"Malfoy," Hermione replied sharply.

"It's Black."

"Oh, yes, rather inconspicuous," she chortled lightly, "taking your mother's maiden name."

Draco set his tea down and folded his hands against his abdomen. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger, but I have no idea what you're talking about. Perhaps you've commandeered your Elf's stash of Butterbeer."

She pressed on anyway, "Your secret is safe with me, Malfoy. I didn't come here to start trouble. If you're here without anyone's knowledge, it's your own reason for doing so."

"Will you go back and put that in a takeaway cup," Draco asked the worker when he appeared beside them with Hermione's tea. "She's not staying."

"Please ignore him," Hermione said. "I'll take a cube of sugar and a splash of milk."

Draco wanted to laugh, and maybe cry a little, at the knot which formed in his throat. He cleared his throat and fidgeted with his cap as Hermione chatted with the worker while he fixed her tea.

"I haven't even asked Ginny why she's working in Knockturn Alley instead of turning down a position in the Ministry." Hermione took a sip of her tea as Draco began berating himself for not going straight home. "Which, let me tell you, is not an easy task when your two best mates are constantly asking you to find out."

Draco sighed and engaged her since she didn't appear to be leaving. "I looked over all the potions on that list. Number nine is probably the best route to avoid any serious side effects. It may make her itch, but I can make some soap to ease that irritation and an ointment to use on any patches she can't help but itch."

Hermione considered him for a second, unsure whether to push her original line of inquiry or humor his change of topic. Ultimately, she chose the latter.

"Winky's been through so much, I can hardly blame her for trying to forget her memories. We all do what we must to escape the past and those nightmares which haunt us," she said. Draco hummed and glanced up at her then back down at his tea, taking a sip. "I just wish she could have found someone to help her before it got out of hand."

"Well, it seems this Kreature came to her aide before it was too late."

"Is that how it was for you and Parkinson?"

Startled, Draco put his cup down with more force than necessary and blew the cover he had been trying maintain.

"Leave her out of this, Granger. She doesn't need you and your lot poking around like some nosy brats trying to make themselves feel better by seeing how low life has dropped the bullies."

At least Hermione had the decency to look sorry for bringing Pansy into the conversation, Draco thought.

"I'm sorry," Hermione apologized quickly, "truly. I hadn't meant to upset you or imply I would hold my knowledge over Parkinson's head. I just don't understand why you're here."

Draco finished off his tea and put some coins on the table as he rose to his feet.

"I'll see you in a week for your order," he said and headed back out into the bitter October air.

Bex was telling Pansy about some fountain in London his late wife (one of them) loved to visit. He told her it struck his wife with so much passion that she always came home and had the raunchiest sex with him until Bex collapsed from exhaustion in the earlier hours of the morning. Pansy would have been disgusted if she had really been listening to him more than a little. She knew it was some sort of lewd suggestion, but if she gave him an inclination that she was interested, he would take it as her consent.

And she probably lucked out. She had been aware of her surrounding as she always way, especially where Bex was and what he was doing; but about two hours ago, Pansy saw the Golden Trio strolling around outside. They stopped in to look at a menu and to ask Bex a couple questions Pansy was out of earshot—and eyeshot—to hear. Bex gave them something from under the counter and sent them on their way. He claimed it was just a business card for a mate of theirs who recently took over ownership of the Leaky Cauldron. She knew from Draco that this was most likely true, but their appearance put Pansy on edge. She could have sworn she saw Granger hang back a bit to get a glimpse of the entire bar, which Pansy immediately assumed was to get a better look at herself.

Of all the people from her past she wanted to find her, she supposed Hermione bloody Granger was at the bloody bottom of the bloody list. A know-it-all, self-righteous, Gryffindor, arse-kissing, muggle-born with an affinity for putting her nose in business that wasn't her. Pansy took a deep breath, remembering a breathing exercise Millicent showed her in Sixth Year, and tried to keep her blood from boiling again at the memory of Granger's bloody self being in her bar.

It would be all right, she assured herself. Hermione Granger wouldn't find her out. The Gryffindors were just an anomaly in this part of Knockturn Alley. They were all probably hanging about here, exploring the area, while their babbling mate Longbottom got settled in. They would be gone within a couple weeks.

Pansy was at the end of a rush when Draco got back to the Wyvern. Bex was busy collecting the money from the patrons who were getting their midday drink or the drink that would get them through the upcoming shift. They looked up in surprise at the sight of Draco coming through, his hair dark as if he had recently taken another potion.

"What are you doing back so soon?" Pansy asked, fitting a tray with a round of shots for the large group in the back corner.

"Borgin and Burkes is closed for the day, so he gave me the shift off," he explained and added, "I'll get an apron and help around here."

Pansy's grin dropped a little as she took in his appearance, trying to place what was different about him. It's not that Draco didn't always offer to help around the bar when he could, but he never seemed quite so eager to do so. Nor could he look her in the eye. He was acting like a man who had cheated on his partner. When he offered her a pastry from a bakery down the way, she took it hesitantly. Since when did he buy her sweets?

She hid the bag under the bar and watched him disappear into the back and return with an apron around his waist. Pansy wouldn't say she was nervous. Obviously Draco was entitled to his secrets. She would be a hypocrite if she expected him to tell her everything, but he was just being too…weird for her to be comfortable with whatever he was hiding. And if it affected her, she wanted to know what was going on. There was nothing worse than being hit with something when one couldn't properly prepare. What if he was planning on leaving her alone in the flat? She would have to refigure her finances. She would have to survive Knockturn Alley without Draco. She would have to survive Bex without Draco.

"Everything good?" she asked him, handing him the tray she just filled.

"Nothing is ever good," he replied. He sounded cryptic to her.

Her paranoia-stricken mind immediately jumped back to Granger. She wondered if the muggle-born had found Draco. Would Draco give them up so easily? She watched him as he walked about the Wyvern, picking up glasses and taking orders. Was he unhappy? Maybe he sought out Granger to spice up and his life and was laden with guilt because he knew Pansy's feelings towards her. She drummed her fingers against the bar and passed a bowl of peanuts to a patron when he asked for them. What would Draco say if she said Hermione Granger was in here not three hours ago?

Pansy committed to talking him when she noticed that Draco kept throwing glances over his shoulder, as if expecting someone unwanted to pop up. He looked more nervous than he had been when he was working with Voldemort. Who made Draco Malfoy more anxious than the Dark Lord?

Bex stayed with them until the last remnants of the night shift crowd cleared out. He asked Draco to take the earnings to the bank again and left when Draco assured him he would. Pansy cornered Draco after they were closed.

"You're being weird," she said, following him up the back staircase that lead to their flat.

He chuckled, "What are you on about?"

"Who knows?"

"What are you talking about, Pansy?"

"Did you run into Harry Potter? Weasley or Granger? You're acting like you've got a secret."

"We all have our secrets," he reminded her and unlocked their door. "You're being rather specific with those three."

"They came into the Wyvern today to talk to Bex, and then you come back acting the weirdest I've ever seen you act in years. You look like Voldemort is going to jump out at you at any given moment."

"Don't joke like that," he chastised.

"Then what is it? I'm not stupid. You bought bloody pastries!"

Draco snatched his cap off his head and ran his hands through his hair. As his strands slipped through his fingers, the dark color faded and his normal light locks reappeared. His features fell, and Pansy knew she had him. He sat down at their small little table, but Pansy stayed standing in case she felt it necessary to storm out. Which part of her hoped would happen, if only for the dramatics of it all.

He threw up a hand in defeat and told her, "Ginny Weasley is working at the potion shop."

Pansy felt like the wind had been knocked out of her, and she gripped the table as she lowered herself into the chair across from him. So much for dramatics.

"For about two weeks now," he confessed. "She doesn't know, and I wasn't going to tell you until it became an issue."

"The she-weasel?"

"She appears to be hiding from something, too."

"That doesn't comfort me."

"She doesn't know, Pansy. I don't think she wants to see the bad in people, so she won't guess it's us unless we drop a massive hint."

Pansy blinked, trying to process all this. She trusted Draco's opinion of the situation, of course, but she didn't understand what changed. If Ginny had been working with him for as long as he claimed, why was he just now acting so odd about it all? It didn't make any sense to her.

"So what changed?"

"Hm?" he asked, looking up from a scab he was picking on his hand.

"I told you this is the weirdest I've ever seen you act. But if you've been working with her without worry for two weeks, why are you all out of sorts now? What changed?"

"Guilt, I suppose," he lied, and she knew he was lying. But he went on anyway, "Who knows when she'll come in for a drink. I wouldn't have wanted to put you in a position where you found out in the middle of a shift."

"That's it?" Pansy questioned skeptically.

Draco grinned at her and took her hands to squeeze them reassuringly. "That's it," he replied and kissed her cheek before retiring to his room and unknowingly leaving Pansy to her simmer in her anxiety.

* * *

 **And we've got Hermione!**

 **To do a little review answering: Draco doesn't actually earn wages from working at the Wyvern. It's more of volunteering to help Pansy who is Bex's only employee at the Wyvern (because she's all he can afford to hire).**

 **And the reason why they live like they do will be revealed as the story unfolds.**

 **Hope you're all still liking it!**

 **Please review?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

Pansy stood in front of the mirror in the washroom on the first floor of St. Mungo's, fixing her lipstick and adjusting her dark hair in a way she hadn't done in a while. She missed dressing up from time to time. She could do without being paraded around for wealthy wizards to eat up and place their bid for her hand (read: fortune), but Pansy liked looking nice when it suited her. It gave her a refreshed sense of self-confidence that didn't come so easily when she was slumming around a bar in a patched dress and messy up-do. Painting on another coat of the lipstick she lifted from a shop nearby, Pansy gave herself on last look over before picking her cloak up and exiting the room.

The reception area was buzzing with Healers coming in for a shift and those leaving for a good night's sleep. She recognized a few of them from Hogwarts, but they spared her no mind as they hurried to her from Point A to Point B without wasting time. A pregnant woman's partner ran past her, calling out for a Healer to help his woman who was in the entrance, howling like a werewolf. Without thinking on it, Pansy placed her hand on her stomach and felt like her uterus was begging her not to put it through that ordeal.

She squared her shoulders and approached the receptionist with a swagger she had abandoned when she started working in Knockturn Alley.

"Pansy Parkinson for Mrs. Aster Parkinson," Pansy told the receptionist.

"Mrs. Parkinson is not allowed to have visitors until further notice."

"I'm not a visitor," Pansy hissed, "I'm her daughter."

"That's all very well, but the family holds no exceptions. It's the policy."

Pansy scowled at the receptionist, telling her that Mrs. Parkinson's mother was a board member and could have someone as replaceable as a receptionist out on their arse and blacklisted before a wand could be raised.

"Are you threatening me for doing my job?" the receptionist blinked up at Pansy.

"I'm threatening you for keeping me from my mother, you daft wanker."

"Pansy!" Theodore Nott snapped, his sudden appearance startling Pansy and the receptionist. "We talked about threatening the hospital staff last week." Pansy frowned at him. "It's all right, Max. She's Mrs. Parkinson's benefactor."

"And _daughter_ ," she reminded the receptionist. "Remember that when you're kept away from your family because of policy."

Nott held out a placating hand to prevent the receptionist from retorting and ushered Pansy away from making a scene.

"Why isn't my mother allowed to have visitors?" she asked Nott while he lead her through the corridors. "What have you quacks done to her?"

"You are in a ripe mood today," he noted.

"Stop being cute."

"I can't help it."

"Theodore."

"Your mother has been receiving a visitor every other day who has apparently been teaching her nonverbal curses. Two nights ago, we let an orderly go, because he said he could hear scorpions every time he entered your mother's room. We obviously couldn't let him continue working in this kind of environment when he started acting as if he belonged in it."

Pansy cut him off, "A man tells you he can hear scorpions in a scorpion-free environment, and you let him go into the sunset? Are you as barking mad as your patients?"

"I'm not in charge here."

"Crazies in charge of crazies. It's like a bloody republic."

"Anyway," Nott spoke over her, "her attempt to curse two Healers who came to see her seemingly backfired so that she and just one of the Healers pulled a few muscles from laughing too hard." Pansy looked at him incredulously. "I was rather amused, but we obviously cannot have patients practicing magic."

She hummed in acknowledgment but remained silent as she followed him up two flights of stairs to the wing her mother was being kept in. Draco liked Nott an awful lot more than she did. It wasn't that Theodore Nott was a terrible person, she didn't think. Objectively, he was a nice fellow who tried to maneuver living his life as the son of known Death Eater, and she respected his silence on his father's activities and his commitment to making a name for himself.

But he reminded her of a time in her life when she wasn't who she wanted to be. They had been intimate for a time in Seventh Year when Draco was checked out of reality, and she just wanted someone to tell her she looked pretty and was a fine shag. That time was short, though, but he was still a constant in her life while she tried figuring out _why_ the prospect of being with him, or even Draco, was no longer an interest for her. Pansy had been coping with feeling different than how she had been raised to think and different than how she saw other girls in her year when they cuddled up next to their boyfriends at meals or held hands in the corridors. While she—someone who had always been looked at as Draco Malfoy's girlfriend and female counterpart—was agonizing over what it meant to admire the way Daphne Greengrass filled out a sweater or how Ginny bloody Weasley seemed more attractive to her each time she took some stand or another against the wankers running the school, Nott was always there to hear her rants or to let her sob into his robes.

He reminded her of a time when she thought terrible things about herself; and although she had come to accept herself, Nott still stirred those memories she preferred to leave in the past.

Regardless, he was back in her life, keeping another one of her secrets, and she knew she could trust him just as she had at Hogwarts. More importantly, Pansy trusted him with her mother, and if it meant pouring even more money into the institution and his transfer to it, she would keep working at the Wyvern until she bloody broke down.

Nott left her outside of her mother's room while he signed off on some paperwork which permitted her entrance. He returned a moment later and handed her a letter to bring back each time she visited, so reception wouldn't hassle her. He also passed over a ring which he kept with him at all times for her. Pansy pursed her lips and slipped the thing onto her ring finger and nodded for the attendant to open her mother's door.

Aster Parkinson was the picture of physical health when Pansy entered the room with Nott behind her. She had a black silk house robe tied on over her hospital uniform, and a pair of fine slippers adorned her feet. Her short dark hair was worn in a bob that Pansy had only seen her mother wear in old photos. Aster had no makeup on, probably the only St. Mungo's regulation she was complying with, but Pansy thought she looked just was regal without it as she did with it. Her mother wasn't the kindest of women, and she was nowhere near as loving as Narcissa Malfoy; but Aster was her mother, and Pansy loved her more than most.

"My darling," Aster whispered hoarsely, bringing a hand up to her heart.

"Mama," Pansy smiled warmly and quickly crossed the room to reach her.

Her mother rose to meet her and returned the hug Pansy initiated.

"You haven't visited in months, my love," she said, betraying the picture of health she presented. "I almost thought you forgot about me."

"Never, mama," Pansy said as Aster kissed her cheek.

"And how is my debonair son-in-law to be?"

"Draco is wonderful, as always," she chuckled, feeling her gut wrench. "He sends you his love and regrets that he couldn't come this time. Work keeps him busy, I'm sure you can imagine."

"Oh, most definitely."

"Are you feeling well, Mama?"

"Some days are better than others. Your sister visits me frequently, but Merlin, I wish she wouldn't. She's so insufferable. All she talks about is herself. But with you so busy being the future Matron of Malfoy Manor, I could never ask you to come daily. Although I would love it."

Pansy smiled at her mother as Nott said that they told Aster she would be permitted a two-day leave to see Pansy's wedding. They went through this each time, and it was one of the issues which convinced Pansy St. Mungo's was making Aster crazy. Her mother had been completely sound of mind when she entered the damned place, but four months in the lower level wings, Aster came out thinking the daughter she miscarried was alive and Pansy was on track to marry Draco Malfoy. Pansy fought tooth and nail to get her mother into a better part of the hospital and made a scene party after party until her grandmother paid off the administration to do so. Slowly, her grandmother's money wasn't coming into Aster's fund, though, so Pansy was doing what she could to maintain her mother's current station.

She also had Nott looking out for anything that could be causing her mother's altered state of mind or something his superiors weren't telling Pansy. According to him, nothing had turned up yet, and he claimed it was completely plausible for Aster to have snapped under the stress of being blamed for her husband's crimes and being forced into the lower levels of St. Mungo's where they kept the more dangerous of the hospitals mental patients.

Aster's condition wore on Pansy. She hated lying to her mother in the way she was. Even if it seemed to benefit her, it couldn't have been healthy to perpetuate the reality Aster was living in, could it? What if she started regaining her memory and saw that her only daughter had been lying to her? And for what? Pansy couldn't say how she would react. When she dwelled on it outside of St. Mungo's, she wondered if she could even bring herself to return and go through it all again.

"Theodore says you've been practicing nonverbal curses in your spare time."

"That's preposterous," Aster snorted. "Darling, I don't have a wand, I can't do nonverbal curses."

"Mama…"

"I'll give you some privacy," Nott said, knocking on the door for the attendant to let him out.

"We're not really in private," Aster whispered. She nodded to the mirror on the far side of the wall. "I can't see them, but those tricky bastards can see me. I always change under my robes. They don't need to see my finely bred parts."

She stayed with her mother for two hours until an orderly came in to collect Aster for mealtime. Pansy walked them to the point where she was authorized to and then remained there, waiting for her mother to leave her sight.

"I hate this part," Pansy told Nott when he came up next her. "Leaving her in the care of people I don't trust, who don't trust me. What will she be like the next time I see her? Can I even bring myself to come next time?"

"You'll come," Nott assured her. "You love her, and she remembers how much she loves you."

Pansy nodded and roughly wiped away the tears which had already started falling. Nott offered the Floo Network in the Healer's lounge, but Pansy turned it down. She would control her tears and walk out of the bloody building with her head held high.

"Draco wrote and said the two of you are coming for tea on Sunday?" Nott asked as they headed back the way they came.

"Yes, yes," Pansy grunted. "Your pestering has worn him down, and now I daresay he's looking forward to it."

"Does that bother you?"

"Everything bothers me, but tea with you is less bothersome than him working with Ginny bloody Weasley."

"Ah," Nott mumbled.

"And I'm assuming you know. Brilliant."

"I'm at the shop frequently."

She nodded and waved her had dismissively. "More so than that, I think he's hiding something."

"What could Draco possibly hide from you?"

"He could be shagging that bloody bint Hermione bloody Granger."

"And I could be shagging the Queen of England," Nott laughed.

"Well, as comforting as this conversation has been, I have to be off. Merlin knows Draco is probably defiling my bar right now. Take care, Teddy, and I'll see you on Sunday."

Draco was not shagging Hermione Granger on the bar, but he found his mind wandering back to her as he dealt with customers throughout the day. He didn't even understand why she took so strongly to Elven rights. It's not like she had much experience working with them or truly experiencing how they lived. If she was so concerned with the quality of life of those living among her, why didn't she look to the men and women in rags begging for a spare coin or two? Surely they needed her attention just as much as Elves who had housing and sustenance. Or were they not subjugated enough?

When the traffic in the tavern started slowing down after dinner time, he started glancing out the window periodically for Pansy's return. She thought she was being sneaky, telling him that she was just going to see her grandmother and get what she could from the Matron; but Draco knew Pansy was lying her arse off. He hated her for five years of his life, tolerated her for three, loved her for at least one, and considered her his equal throughout it all. He knew her better than he knew himself at times. Draco knew how close people like them were with the parent who showed them the most affection, and Pansy clung on to love like she would die without it. And for all Aster Parkinson's faults, she loved her daughter more than anything.

Well, Draco thought, as he rummaged through his drawer behind the bar for a book on medicine, he supposed Aster actually loved money more than anything. But the woman didn't have access to money. So he guessed Aster loved her daughter more than anything she had _access_ to.

Pansy would never admit how much she loved her mother. Emotions ruined the indifferent persona Pansy tried to front.

Draco flipped the page of his book and wrote down a few notes about the reactions Healers have had in the past when giving House Elves muggle medicine. He supposed he could try grinding up one of the pills the Healers recommended and adding it to a potion or an ointment for Winky to use. If it worked, it was easy to make, and the ingredients were also easy to acquire. He could probably give Granger a crate of them to distribute to other Elves who were going through similar withdrawals or those who wanted to quit their addiction and potentially faced the same issues.

He was just finishing a chapter about alternative centaur healing methods and goblin medicine when Pansy strolled in. She looked beautiful and walked with a strut he hadn't seen her walk with in a while. Draco marked his spot in the book and tucked it in his apron pocket. Pansy moseyed up to the bar with a smirk on her far and beckoned for him to poor her a glass.

"Well, don't you look like a million galleons, love," he commented.

She tossed her hair back and stuck her nose up haughtily. "You can't put a price on my beauty."

"How about a drink on the house and a string of endless compliments?"

"Titillate me with conversation and then you'll be off to a start."

She smiled widely when Draco broke and chuckled. Pansy took the butterbeer he offered and sighed into the glass while taking a drink.

"How was your mum?" She looked at him like she had no idea what he was on about. "Come on, Pansy. I've known you for ages."

Pansy relented with a sigh, "Sordid. Talking nonsense. As always."

Draco watched her as she stared into her glass, taking a sip now and then. She looked miserable under all the glamour she was draped in. He knew each visit she paid to her mother took its toll on Pansy, but it was only ever blatantly obvious when she came back dressed to the nines.

Her bottom lip quivered, but she sucked it in quickly and steeled herself with a deep breath.

"Pansy…"

"Theodore Nott's a good bloke. Bloody persistent prick, but a good bloke," she commented. "I hate to admit it, but I am rather excited to take tea at his place. I haven't had a well brewed in a while."

"Do you know like the tea I bring home?"

"You get it from Borgin and Burkes, Draco. For all we know, it's laced with something. I worry that I'm going to turn into something dreadful after each sip."

Draco shot her a look, but she was already looking away. He hated when she looked so sad. Part of him wondered if he only cared that she looked as such when she was dressed up like she was. As if it was wrong for someone who looked so nice to be so down. How much did he ever really want to cheer her up when he saw her scowling normally? Hell, he even goaded her sour feelings when he found her huffing and puffing from dealing with Bex or a particularly disgruntled patron. Draco supposed you could never really let go of all the small impositions from your upbringing.

"Let's go out for a night, yeah?" Draco suggested against his better judgement.

Pansy turned her gaze back to him and there was something immensely skeptical in it. He should have heeded the look more than he actually did.

"Honestly," he pressed. "Let's go somewhere and be Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson for a night. We can tell tall tales about where we've been and what we've been doing. Who's going to know the difference?"

He grinned when Pansy struggled to mask the jolt of energy his suggestion actually gave her.

"We can apparate to Nott's, so I can borrow a suit and cloak from him. Why should we waste all the time and energy you put into looking nice today?"

"And the tavern?" Pansy's face dropped when she looked around.

"We keep it open until normal time. When would we ever turn up somewhere earlier than midnight?"

"I will hex your stupid arse into oblivion if you're lying to me, Draco Malfoy. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear," he promised with a smirk.

Pansy waited anxiously at the bar for Draco to finish the three hours left in the shift. Hardly anyone came into the tavern, and they barely made twenty sickles from the time Draco decided they were going out until closing actually came. Bex really ought to have raised the prices whenever someone talked about how cheap the tavern was. If Pansy was running the joint, she would have doubled the price and put the money into tidying up the place. Maybe turn it into a gastropub. But the Ministry was on Bex like freckles on the Weasleys. They wanted to take over the tavern, but as long as Bex had patrons coming in, Bex owned the joint. She assumed the Ministry planned on turning it over to a war hero in order to rejuvenate this part of Knockturn Alley—as she had heard they did with the Leaky Cauldron—but she couldn't be sure if they wanted the tavern or just wanted Bex out.

She didn't even know why she was so jittery to go out on the town for the night. The whole reason she sought out the life she was living was to _not_ be Pansy Parkinson, but the idea of going back to her old self tonight was much more appealing than it had ever been. It was different. She and Draco could have been shagging their way across the Americas for all anyone knew. They could have been dining with elite wizarding families from other countries and continents. Besides, what were the chances they would actually run into people who knew them well?

Later, Draco had a look of regret on his face as they approached Nott's flat, and Pansy worried she was feeling that regret herself. They could hear music coming from his flat, and she had no idea why either of them held onto the hope that Nott was just listening to tunes alone. Both of them were fools, she knew it. Nott was a bore. He would only be listening to music if he was forced to. There was no way Nott would have mustered up enough culture to muse over music with wine. She cursed herself. She should have never let Draco talk her into this.

After he knocked twice on the tall door which separated Pansy from whatever the hell was going on inside, she grabbed Draco's arm roughly.

"We have to turn around," she whispered hurriedly.

He laughed uneasily at her, "What? So what if Nott is throwing a bash? Didn't we come out to be Draco and Pansy, Slytherin royalty, again?"

"I don't have a good feeling about this, Draco."

"It's Theo, Pansy," Draco reminded her. "Who could he possibly have here that we would know? Even if we did, it's more than likely other Slytherins who would eat out of the palm of our hands and do anything we told them to."

Theodore opened the door before she could respond. In a matter of a second, his face went through a series of emotions. Surprise. Glee. Consternation. Hesitant Acceptance. He threw a glance over his shoulder and then slipped out of his flat as quietly as he could.

"I can honestly say, you two are the last ones I expected to see tonight."

"I hope we're not entirely unwelcome," Draco responded.

"We can go," Pansy offered.

"No, please," Nott hurried to overcome Pansy's worry. "You're unexpected but not unwelcome, I swear it. I'm fundraising, you see, for my position within the department."

Draco looked at Pansy for rejection or acceptance. She supposed a fundraising crowd wouldn't be so bad. They couldn't be any worse than the people her grandmother threw at her. Pansy sucked her lips in and consented reluctantly. It was worth it for the smile that spread across Draco's stupidly handsome face.

"Excellent! I'll bring Pansy in and introduce her." Nott said and added, "And you can sneak in and shower, borrow clothes, whatever you need, mate," to Draco.

"We don't deserve a mate like you, Theo," Pansy told him, and Nott cackled and blushed faintly. "Come on, I'll be missed." He offered Pansy and arm, which she took willingly. At least Theo wouldn't be forcing her onto old cods with gnarly hands.

Pansy was truly impressed with Nott's flat. His job had either paid him incredibly well, or he made off like a bandit when he turned his father's intel and artifacts over to the Aurors. The fine paneling stretched into high vaulted ceilings and ran down into sleek, wooden floors that looked as if they were waxed regularly. Fine paintings lined the walls, and beautifully sculpted marble busts sat here and there on even more beautifully crafted Grecian pedestals. Who knew Theodore Nott had such taste? Her father fancied himself a sculptor, but he could never match the likes of Nott's gallery.

Nott motioned for Draco to take a left immediately upon entering, and Pansy could see they were blocked by a large panel which served as a divider between the foyer and the rooms Nott's guests were gathered in. It was decorated with Japanese art, and Pansy detected it might have belonged to Nott's mother at one point. If her memory served her, the late Mrs. Nott had a fondness for Japanese culture.

"I should warn you," Nott said as they stood in the foyer, watching Draco disappear down the corridor to the directed room. "These Healers I'm trying to impress are well-connected."

"No doubt," Pansy agreed, not thinking much on his words. "As long as my grandmother isn't here, I think I shall have a lovely night."

Nott made a noise which put the nerves back in Pansy, but he assured her that her grandmother was most definitely not in attendance. She had to swallow her anxiety, though, as her lead her past the divide and into the party.

Old Healers and cabinet members crowded the room. Some of them were around the jazz singer, crooning in the far corner with her band; others were situated at the bar, pestering the bartender for whatever their mates were having or whatever made them look the most sophisticated; and the rest were buzzing around from small group to small group in order to make their appearance in every circle. It was so familiar Pansy felt equally at ease and disgusted. This formula was one she knew and had mastered before she even hit puberty. She was a high born child with high born skills, after all.

Endless galas and governesses had taught her to attack the bar first, make an acquaintance there who would lead her over to the music, where she would meet another one to take her around and introduce her to each major and worthwhile group which made up the rest of the room. It was a foolproof tactic for working the room. Where you began said a lot about a person, according to her second governess. Those who immediately went to the crowd here fools and gossips. The ones who sought out the music first were wall flowers who would probably use the next song as an excuse to keep from socializing. And those who found the bar before people showed that their appearance was a gift to the host. They didn't need to be there, and maybe didn't even want to be there, but they would power through it with a smile on their face and drink in their hand.

Of course, Pansy thought as she scanned the room, her governess could have been full of shit and a closeted alcoholic; but it was a tried and true method which Pansy always adhered to. So she kept hold of Nott's arm but steered them towards the bar.

"A Richelieu and a Marie Antoinette, if you will," Nott told the barkeep.

"Pansy Parkinson, as I live and breathe," a familiar voice said, coming up beside Pansy and Nott at the bar.

Pansy turned her attention from the drinks being made to her old companion.

Millicent Bulstrode had never been a particularly attractive woman, but she had always been able to make herself presentable. Although, Pansy didn't remember Millicent actually making the effort during their days at Hogwarts. Once in a while, though, Pansy would beg her to go to a gala, and Millicent would put her best bred foot forward.

Tonight she had her dark hair pulled back like Grace Kelly, and her makeup done like Princess Diana. She was surprisingly well dressed for a woman who professed her family didn't have much money. Pansy recognized the skirt she was wearing as one from a collection which hadn't even come out yet. She was thoroughly impressed. She didn't know what poor bastard agreed to marry someone who would have to spend so much time on looking like a lady. Regardless, Millicent looked like she had been turned into a right woman of high wizarding society. Someone had done fine work.

"Millicent," Pansy smiled, "you're a sight for sore eyes."

"Only when I have to be, darling," Millicent kissed her cheek and gave her a once over. "You look sickly. Where on Earth have you been?"

"Here and there," Pansy answered obscurely. "Draco tells the adventures much better than I do," she lied. Draco _was_ much better at talking to people than she was, at least.

"He's fixing himself up in the loo," Nott explained. "You know, Draco," he added with an inconspicuous wink at Pansy.

Nott left Pansy to mingle with Millicent while he made his rounds to wring money out of the old witches and wizards in the room. Pansy listened to her old mate, but she kept her gaze sweeping the room for Draco.

Millicent had done what all the other girls in Pansy's acquaintance had only talked about doing from the moment they hit puberty: she married rich and secured her wealth. Millicent told Pansy that her clothes were picked out for her every morning; her hair and makeup were done before she was allowed to leave her living quarters; the men and women she entertained were hand-picked by some sort of marketing team; and even her appearances in society were scheduled for specific motives. Pansy snorted into the second drink she was handed and confessed to Millicent that she reminded her of Blaise Zabini's mother who had relayed similar things to her when Pansy's grandmother tried to make a union between Blaise and herself.

"I imagine it does sound familiar," Millicent said with a smile to someone nearby. "The Zabinis take their place in society _very_ seriously," she added in a hushed response.

Pansy's face went blank as she pieced together Millicent's insinuation, and when it hit it, she choked on her drink.

A few of the guests around them frowned at Pansy who waved off the attention.

"You married Blaise Zabini. _You're_ the new Missus Zabini they talk about?"

Her companion looked slightly taken aback. Millicent was never one that people talked about, Pansy knew, and she imagined becoming Missus Zabini was a challenge for Millicent.

"What are they saying?" Millicent asked suspiciously.

Pansy laughed. "Only that dear Blaise has met his match. Never in a million years did I think you would be his match. How did that even happen?" She threw another glance around for Draco as she beckoned for another drink.

Hearing about their relationship made Pansy rather glad she didn't have one. According to Millicent, the Zabinis needed Blaise married off to someone whose family was not in close association with the Dark Arts but who also _had_ a name. Blaise's mother new someone who knew someone who dry cleaned the Bulstrode's sheets, and a few weeks after the names were dropped, Blaise sent Millicent a letter for a meeting. Pansy was flabbergasted, truly. She thought well of Millicent—her sweet, simple Millie—but Merlin knows she had never pictured Millicent, a barge, being married to a Zabini. Did they shag? she wondered and gagged a little at her own musings.

"So he courted you?" Pansy inquired slowly. She cleared her throat and followed as Millicent lead her around the room.

"Merlin no," Millicent cackled. "He told me he needed to marry modest and asked if I could really afford to turn down someone with the Zabini name and money."

"How charming," Pansy sneered.

"Blaise isn't a good enough man to marry him for any other reason but money."

"He's a good cook," she supplied, remember the time she and Draco caught Blaise teaching Daphne Greengrass how to make some posh French dish.

"Not better than the Italian cooking for us now," Millicent replied. She took in Pansy's expression and went on, "Please don't think I'm unhappy. Access to anything I want is only a breath away, and I have more freedom than I've ever had before. Living under the same roof as Blaise again is a small price to pay for those privileges."

"You don't regret anything?"

"No," Millicent said firmly. "Could you not say the same?"

Pansy thought over the question as she watched the pianist prepare for another piece. She supposed she could. Given the chance to do it all over again, she thought she would make the same decisions and mistakes. Her life wasn't perfect, but she enjoyed it.

"Bloody hell," Pansy muttered when the two of them caught back up with Nott some drinks later. "Did Draco fall into a hole?"

Nott had a guilty look on his face that Pansy immediately zeroed in on. She asked him if he had seen Draco around, knowing full well he had.

"I think Draco left early. He didn't look too well."

Millicent chuckled, "He probably didn't want to run into Harry Potter and the She-Weasel."

"I beg your pardon?" Pansy snapped.

"Did I not mention they were here?"

Pansy gave each of them a sour look, "Neither of you did."

Nott politely pushed through the crowd, taking Pansy and Millicent to the next room where hors d'oeuvres were being served. Sure enough, Potter stood at the far enough of the room, looking awfully uncomfortable under the attention of the gaggle of people clearly talking about him. Ginny far outshined him. Pansy knew she had always been attractive, but the ginger was absolutely lovely with the extra effort she put into her appearance. She kept a steady hand on Potter's arm and smiled warmly at him from time to time in between conversing with those demanding her attention.

Pansy bristled at the sight of the man in their company, though. Dressed in one of Nott's shabbiest suits and with a formula saturating every strand of his blonde hair, Draco stood among the guests masquerading as the same character he was in Knockturn Alley. He talked with Potter and Weasley as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and when the latter said something, he broke out in giggles with her. Pansy dug her nails into her palm to keep from lashing out at Draco or from saying something she'd regret to Millicent and Nott.

"Who is that, Teddy?" Millicent asked with mild admiration for the dark-haired Draco.

"My potions' master," Nott said. "My career would be absolutely flat without him. Honestly, Millicent, he would have impressed Snape."

Millicent hummed. "I'd ask for an introduction, but I don't care to be around the other two."

"I doubt you'd catch him without Ginny nearby," Pansy replied pettily. "It's a wonder Potter stands for him to be near them."

"What that supposed to mean?" Millicent asked, sipping her drink.

"Pansy," Nott warned, but Pansy did not heed him.

"Just that I've heard someone's been warming Ginny Weasley's toes on cold afternoons in Knockturn Alley."

"Oh!" Millicent gasped softly. "You know, I've heard something similar."

"You have not." Nott interjected.

"Seriously, I have. One of the women I take tea with mentioned Ginny Weasley was working at Mulpepper's in Knockturn Alley and said there had to be someone keeping her interest there."

Pansy smirked over at the women who had been eavesdropping on their conversation.

"That's ridiculous," Nott hissed. "Ginny Weasley is not known for her fleeting emotions or fickleness."

Pansy nursed her drink with a forced smiled while Millicent went off to gossip with other women in her league and Nott to do clean up where he could. There was a small sting of guilt somewhere in her chest, but she mostly felt enraged. Perhaps a little betrayed. Draco had been the one to suggest the two of them be Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson for one night. Draco was the one who wanted to hobnob as elite Slytherins. Draco was the one who dragged her to bloody Nott's party when she was unsure. And Draco was the one to abandon her the moment he caught wind Ginny Weasley was here.

When he glanced back at her, Pansy raised her glass to Draco and left the room already abuzz with the latest gossip.

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 **I swear this isn't a Pansy bashing fic. My girl's just a petty drunk.**

 **Review?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Heyyyy there. So it's been a little while, but here's this.**

 **You are the best readers a gal could ask for, and if you're still here (or just joining the shindig), I appreciate your patience and attention immensely.**

 **Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. If you don't, I probably still don't own it.**

* * *

Pansy's reactionary gossip mongering backfired magnificently, Draco thought as he heard her loudly moving things about in the kitchen a week after their night out. He had gained quite the little following of young women who all wanted to know the man behind Rita Skeeter's latest gossip column piece. A few of them followed him around Knockturn Alley after his shift at Mulpepper's few days ago, and when he finished his shift at Borgins, they were waiting like obedient mutts. So he did what any bitter person would do, and he lead them to the person who would like their presence even less than he did.

He lead them into the Inn and sat at the bar a little while with Bex, sending glances over his shoulder every now and then. The young women erupted into fits of giggles each time, and one of them even swooned when he flashed a quick smile. Draco waited until most of them had their attention on Pansy for an order to slip out the back room.

When he was back out in the biting cold, he tucked all his hair under his cap and drew his cloak as close to him as possible. Draco watched the scene inside of the Inn from across the street with smug satisfaction. Pansy snapped at a few girls who looked as if they thought it was an endearing result of the tavern wench's unfortunately low situation. He had smirked and stole away to Mulpepper's to check on some potions he was making.

Naturally, Draco had been livid with Pansy over her actions at Nott's party. He was _still_ livid with her. She put them under unnecessary scrutiny. Something she had constantly been paranoid about. She had been careless, and now they were paying for her mistake. If it had been anyone other than Ginny Weasley—girl wonder, love of Harry bloody Potter's life, apple of the wizarding world's eye—no one would have batted a lash. Affairs and flings came and went like the weather. But the speculation was more interesting when Ginny Weasley and a dirty mongrel from Knockturn Alley were at the center.

Draco slowly buttoned up his shirt as she heard Pansy finishing up with her morning routine in the kitchen. She'd be slamming the front door shut soon enough to begin prep down with Bex.

His eyes strayed over the end of the Dark Mark that still scarred his forearm. It didn't matter how much squalor and muck he surrounded himself with, he would always be the dirtiest thing in his company. Draco could devote his life to volunteer work and charity, give up vices, spread the good word of the Golden Trio, and none of it would be enough to remove the stain. He had heard of a procedure the muggles did to remove tattoos that even he had contemplated at one point; but someone else had beat him to it, and the results had been a hot gossip topic for a couple of weeks. No magic or muggle means could remove the Mark. Draco supposed it was fitting.

He adjusted his sleeves to keep the Mark hidden and grabbed his cloak from the floor where he tossed it the night before. Granger was picking up her potions, and Draco wanted to get into the shop to make sure there was nothing about the product or packaging she could find an error in.

Knockturn Alley was still when Draco exited the Wyvern. There was a bite to the air, but then there was always a bite to the air.

"Tom," Draco responded after the beggar greeted him. He passed the man a mug of coffee. "Try to stay warm enough, yeah?"

"Warm enough, yeah," Tom repeated with a soft scoff. "Don't work too hard today, kid," he added.

"If I don't work hard, you don't get coffee in the morning or bread at night."

Granger's potions were near perfect, Draco noted when he pulled them out an hour later. The thin layer of plasma that sat on top of each concoction could have been a degree thinner, but that would hardly affect the overall product. Draco turned the one of the vials upside down and was pleased when the mixture remained still. He placed the vial back among the others and started packing it into a takeaway crate for Granger. She promised to be at the shop first thing, and Draco hated to admit he was eager to give the product to her.

He left the parcel nearby as he started running through the list of potions he needed to start today, the ones he could finish today, and the ones that were being picked up today. As far as things went, the workload was lighter than it usually was. Draco figured he'd be able to take a longer lunch if Maude was still discussing finances with some wizard in Manchester. The old man would undoubtedly let Draco take the time.

Ginny and the old man came in thirty minutes before the shop opened, after Draco had prepped the backroom for the first round of potions and the floor for the morning rush. In spite of Pansy's rash sabotage, Ginny carried on as though nothing had occurred. She greeted the throng of new faces as though they were interested in the products Mulpepper's sold, and she smiled off the prying as though she did it frequently. Though, Draco guessed, she probably did do it frequently. But he enjoyed it. He enjoyed that Pansy's attempt to hurt him or Ginny was only hurting herself.

"You've been busy, Black," the old man commented, looking around at the readied crates and work stations.

"I've been doing my job."

"And a job well done."

"How was your night, Mr. Black?" Ginny asked, shedding her cloak and gloves.

"As well as any other," he replied as he checked one of the cauldrons.

"Hermione is quite excited to pick up her potions," Ginny said. Draco glanced over at the old man, who winked back at him.

"They're good quality," the old man told Ginny while he poked through the crate. "She'll be pleased."

"I don't think she had any doubts. She was pretty confident this whole wait."

Draco felt his gut twist uncomfortably, but he wasn't entirely sure what brought it on. Rather than responding, he turned his back to Ginny and the old man to start grinding cinnamon for a potion. He would need it in a fine powder for the potion or the blasted thing would blow up in his face. Maude would kill him if he had another careless accident in the backroom. So he needed to concentrate on getting all the chunks ground out instead of Hermione bloody Granger's confidence in him.

He hated that Granger's reappearance in his life made him ask questions that he hadn't previously considered with Ginny. There was a comfort with Ginny. He worked closely with her, and as far as he knew, she was completely unaware she was working with Draco Malfoy. Granger, though, seemed to know before she had even walked in the shop, which made him wonder if she was the one who sketched on the Wyvern's napkin. But Draco wanted to know how other people would react to Draco Malfoy working in Knockturn Alley. Or, really, how they would react to Draco Malfoy working. Would it be the worst thing in the world to let Mr. Black of Knockturn Alley rest? Could he still work as he was if he was Draco Malfoy instead of Mr. Black.

 _What happens after?_ is what Draco considered more often, and it unnerved him. He had been happy blending into the many shadows and crannies of Knockturn Alley. He was still happy with blending, but Draco couldn't always blend. Sooner or later he was going to have to face the society he had been hiding from; and if Hermione bloody Granger seemed to be willing to accept him, surely everyone else would?

The front bell rang, indicating the start of the day. Draco heard those who had been waiting outside spill into the front room, and the old man's voice carried as he greeted the customers. Granger would be there any moment.

Draco set down the mortar and pestle, fidgeting with the cap on his head instead. He glanced at himself in the nearest reflective surface, slightly paranoid that he had forgotten to darken his hair that morning. He took the cap off, running a hand through his hair and debating whether to keep the cap on or off, before ultimately deciding to keep it off. There was a smudge of something on his cheek that he tried cleaning off but gave up after it didn't rub away. He turned his head from right to left, checking his profile and jaw for any fixable imperfections. Draco paused with his hand gripping his chin. What was he doing?

He turned away from his reflection to find Granger standing in the threshold, smirking at him. Draco cleared his throat and pulled the cap back on.

"Morning," Granger said without losing the smirk.

"This room's for employees only," he replied curtly.

"Master Mulpepper told me to come on back."

"Of course," Draco grunted. He beckoned her forward while he grabbed the parcel. He set it on the counter and allowed her to open it for herself. "It's gel-like now," he explained as she turned one of the vials over in her hand, "but it'll turn liquid once exposed to air. Start with the darker concoctions first and work your way to the clear liquid."

"One potion a day?"

"One potion a day," he confirmed. "The darker potions have a high concentration of the active ingredients that she'll be weaned off of over the course of six weeks. If she has a relapse, you shouldn't stop giving her the potions. The potions won't work properly if you stop and start inconsistently."

Granger nodded along and repeated it back questioningly to make sure she heard correctly.

"It didn't affect the potion itself, but I added some flavoring to the darker brews. They won't be an exact match for Butterbeer, but it's enough and subtle enough to help her take the potions, I think." Draco grabbed a jar of ointment from nearby and handed it to Granger. "These potions won't make her itch, but she may itch from withdraws. The ointment will help. If she doesn't need it, adding some lemon juice to it turns it into a great moisturizer."

"I can't begin to thank you enough," Granger said sincerely. Draco scratched his neck and waved a hand dismissively. "Kreature and Harry care so deeply for Winky that I couldn't sit by and do nothing."

"She'll be all right," Draco assured her, tying up the parcel securely. "It'll be a process, but it's something more than the bottom of another bottle."

"Truly, thank you."

"Of course."

"How much do I owe you for the ointment?" Granger asked as she followed Draco out of the backroom. She pulled out the order form for the potion regiment and began digging around her coin purse.

Another dismissive wave of Draco's hand.

"It's on the house," he replied, though he doubted it would be warmly welcomed by management.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly."

"Couldn't possibly what?" the old man inquired, falling into the step with Draco.

The front room was relatively low on customers. Even people only interested in seeing if the rumors were true about Ginny Weasley seemed thin. The fact that Draco and the old man could walk side by side was testament to the light morning load.

"I drew up an ointment to go along with the Elven Withdraw potion set," Draco told him, and the old man hummed. "I'm giving it to her on the house."

"That's awfully kind of you, Mr. Black."

"Too kind," Granger piped in. "Please, I'd prefer to pay you."

The old man gazed at Draco, who rolled his eyes in response. Under his breath, Merrick let Draco know he'd take the price out of Draco's own wages. Draco figured, as long as the ointment would help the Elf, the docking would be worth it. Besides, the cost of an experimental ointment was hardly enough to scoff at. To appease Granger, though, they'd tack on an extra service charge for her price. Merrick justified it with Draco's addition of flavoring to the potions, and Granger seemed to accept the reasoning.

From her end of the counter, Ginny grinned at the three of them. Draco watched with his arms crossed as Granger and the old man made light conversation about the weather. Was it a requirement for all British people to discuss the weather? He supposed it was, telling the old man he heard it was to rain later. Granger smiled widely at him, her brows furrowing slightly when her attention fixed on his hairline. Draco's heart started pounding and his fingers twitched nervously from where they were tucked out of sight, but he refused to give Granger the satisfaction of visibly reacting.

When the front door shut behind her, Draco hurried to the backroom and checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror. He scowled at himself. Not a hair out of place.

Granger was toying with him. She had to be, didn't she? But what did she want with him? He assumed she was primarily interested in what brought Draco Malfoy to Knockturn Alley. It was what he wondered when Ginny showed up. Surely, though, she couldn't have been so fixated on an answer as to continue pestering him. He thought about it as he went back to brewing his potions. It would make sense if she _was_ fixated. This was Hermione bloody Granger, after all. When was the last time she half-assed anything? She was his own personal torment, Draco thought.

As Draco guessed, the old man did let him take a longer lunch. Draco showed him the potions he had finished, the ones he would finish after lunch, and the ones that needed to set for ninety six minutes anyway. The old man probably would have let Draco go for far less, but he wanted to make sure Maude couldn't come back to call him a slacker. He wanted to show them he was worth the lateral promotion and wouldn't let the title go to his head. Not that Draco really thought it would. Working for the Mulpeppers made him happy, and he'd be damned if he let anything, himself included, ruin that.

Glancing at a clock in a store he passed, Draco wondered if he should visit Nott with his extended break. It could be nice to visit outside of his normal four blocks for lunch. Ultimately, though, he found himself on the familiar path to the café. Draco clutched his cloak tighter around himself and continued on. The café's house brew sounded lovely right now anyway.

Without thinking, he made a content noise upon entering the café. Their own traffic also seemed lighter than he had usually seen. There were only a few people scattered throughout the floor. Some even looked like they were preparing to leave. And whatever they were making in the kitchen had just been pulled from the oven, filling the entire place with something divine. It reminded him of these little cinnamon biscuits his mother used to make—the only thing his mother knew how to make. Draco grinned.

"Ahoy," the man at the counter greeted Draco. "Your usual, mate?"

"Please," Draco said, "and whatever you just pulled from the oven."

"Right up."

"Do you have a book I could borrow?" he asked and added, "Long lunch today."

"Not much. Some jokester keeps dropping off muggle books, and that's about all we've got. Unless you're interested in Rita Skeeter's autobiography."

"I'll take any of the muggle books, I suppose."

"Sure thing."

The worker dropped a stack of books on the counter and Draco thumbed through the titles of each and settled on one that appeared to be a diary about motorcycles. Or motorcycle riders? Something to that extent. He liked the opening paragraph regardless of what the rest would hold.

He settled into his usual spot with the book and looked at the muggle photos in the center of the book while he waited for his tea and food. It probably wasn't a book about motorcycles, and the people pictured didn't quite look like motorcycle riders Millicent Bulstrode had fantasies about at Hogwarts.

About fifteen minutes after his order had been brought out and as he was engrossed in the book, the café's door jingled open. Draco felt Hermione Granger's eyes boring a hole into his forehead well before she sat down in the seat across from him. He gave her an agitated sigh in acknowledgement but did look up from his book.

"Good read?" she asked.

"Even better without company."

"Oh, nonsense," Granger dismissed. "What's the saying? _The more the merrier._ "

"Whoever coined it obviously never met a…" Draco trailed off and glanced up to find a smirk plastered on Granger's face.

"A what?" she prompted, then added in a hushed tone, "A Malfoy?"

"A Granger," he retorted. She grinned widely, and Draco determined he would have to try harder to offend her later. "Are stalking me, Granger?"

"Hardly," she quipped, taking off her hat and gloves.

"Then what are you doing here?" he asked as she motioned for the waiter to come back over.

"Getting a cup of tea, of course."

Granger recited her order to the waiter and then settled back in her chair, looking at Draco with a shit-eating grin.

"Do you have nothing better to do than annoy me, Granger?"

"Oh, I have plenty to do," she replied. "I popped over to see Winky and give her the first potion. She's sleeping now, and Kreature is being a wonderful attendant."

"As the one who brewed the potion, I'd prefer you be there to watch her."

"And miss grabbing tea with you? Never," she said cheerfully.

A more thoughtful look replaced Granger's nonchalant one when he glanced back up at her after a moment of silence.

"What?" he asked and immediately regretted.

"Are you all right?"

Draco frowned at her, repeating the question back.

"Are you in trouble with the law? Has someone put a bounty on your head?" Draco's frown deepened as she went on, asking about possible situations he could have been in. "I can help, if you'll let me. Even I have my limits, but I know people."

"I beg your pardon?"

She blinked at him. "You want me to repeat all of that?"

"Are you trying to ask why I'm here?" She nodded. "Getting a cup of tea, of course," Draco parroted her words back.

Granger pursed her lips and stared him down. Draco raised his brows and went back to his book. Across from him, Granger huffed but seemed to drop the topic. Above his book, he saw her head duck down as she dug through her bag, grabbing a book and setting it on the table while she shucked her cloak and scarf. She was wearing an ill-fitting sweater that looked of similar design to something Ginny often wore. It was a sweater the matron-She Weasel knitted or crocheted or whatever. Draco chuckled softly thinking of his mother trying to do anything of the sort.

The noise seemed to startle Granger, who smiled back at him a couple seconds after the noise left his throat. He knew she was curious what caused his chuckle, but she let him have it without prying. Instead, she made herself comfortable and started flipping through her book until the waiter brought out her tea. Granger thanked him and fixed her tea like Narcissa did.

Draco wondered how much longer he could go without seeing his parents. He supposed he would need to check in by the end of the month. Perhaps he could convince Nott to host another gathering, or maybe Pansy's family would find another charity to give an insultingly small portion of their wealth to. He quirked his lips to one side. Draco did want to see them, but he worried how much he would want to come back to Knockturn Alley after seeing them. Or if seeing them would make him want to stay in Knockturn Alley longer than the undetermined time he already had vaguely planned.

"Do you hear much gossip here in Knockturn Alley?" Granger asked, pulling him from his musings.

"A bit here and there," he said and flipped a page.

"Know much of Draco Malfoy?"

"Last I heard he was living in a yuppie neighborhood with a Pansy Parkinson."

"That's what everyone hears, but no one knows anything."

"People don't need to know anything."

"People worry," Granger replied quickly, and Draco rolled his eyes. "They do. They Malfoys were such a commonplace name for most all of our life, and now there's barely hide or hair of them."

"I'm sure they're fine. Why do people like you care anyway?"

"The war affected a lot of people in a lot of different ways, and it seems Knockturn Alley has the most interesting cases."

Draco thought of Ginny, Girl Wonder, working for semi-legal wages in Knockturn Alley.

"Sometimes people just need to know they matter," Granger added. "They might not have similar beliefs or motivations, but they matter."

He drummed his fingers on the table before taking a sip of his tea. Granger was ridiculous. He knew he mattered. Mattering was the problem. His actions mattered, and he was trying to pay his penitence. Draco stared at his book without seeing the words. He mattered, of course he did. The orders he carried out, the lies he spread, the plans he put in place all mattered. They affected people. They _hurt_ people. _Killed_ people, Draco thought heavily.

The familiar tightening of his throat cued Draco to leave, and a stinging in his nose hurried him. Quickly, he left the book on the table with a handful of coins and apparated the second he made it to the street without fully clasping his cloak.

Draco had intended to apparate to Nott's complex, but when the tug on his person eased, he was staring at the rear of the Malfoy Manor from the gardens. He finished fastening his cloak and drew the hood as he looked at the skeletons of plants around him. A light fog hugged the ground of the gardens and danced around his feet as he took hesitant steps to wander deeper into the grounds. For as long as he could remember, the gardens of the Malfoy Manor had always welcomed fog during the colder months. A part of him wondered if his mother or father charmed it that way for purely aesthetic reasons.

His mother and father, Draco thought, who were so close. He looked back at the Manor as he reached the end of a row of rose bushes. What would they be doing now? Taking midday tea? What did his father do with his free time now? Was his mother learning a new language? Or craft? Were they writing him letters he'd never receive? Draco turned toward the Manor when he reached the end of the flower garden. He couldn't just pop in, could he? No, he would never make it back to Mulpepper's in time. It would be cruel to say hello and then goodbye in the same breath.

Draco made it to the clearing that separated the gardens from the sprawling back patio. In the summertime, his parents used to host elaborate parties. He remembered playing mock Quidditch with the kids he grew up with in the clearing. He and Nott were always Chasers until the kid who monopolized Seeker went away to Durmstrang. Everything seemed so much simpler then. He knew of Voldemort, but for the most part, his parents did what they could to keep him protected from the full extent of their involvement with the Death Eaters. Draco knew, of course. They had to tell him something, but he didn't know much more than the history books until the end of Third Year. Then everything changed.

A small, rat-like man had shown up one night, right after he arrived home for summer, while Draco and his mother were playing cards on the back patio. Peter Pettigrew had apparated, loudly appearing in the spot where Draco got his first scar on their mock Quidditch field. Narcissa ushered Draco inside before she fully hid her alarm at Pettigrew's presence. He remembered the shrill tone to her voice when she called for Lucius the second the patio door shut behind her. Draco didn't remember being scared. Curious, if anything. Uncomfortably curious. He sent an owl to Blaise Zabini about the entire situation, but, thinking back on it, he didn't recall Blaise ever commenting on it.

 _Our time has arrived_ , is what Lucius told him later the same night. Their time had arrived, and his father needed him to be on his best behavior in the coming years. Naturally, Draco wasn't, and his father paid for it. Draco's actions _mattered._

As he drew closer to the Manor, he could see into one of the parlor windows. The room he was in when he first met Lord Voldemort nearly a year after Pettigrew's appearance. He was terrified. Voldemort was terrifying. People don't seem to talk about that, he thought. Before seeing him with his own eyes, Draco had imagined Voldemort to be suave. Someone whose smile could easily persuade the staunchest of opponents to follow him. But he was hideous. He was something out a nightmare, and Draco has pissed himself when the Dark Lord entered the parlor with his bloody Nagini slithering at his feet. Draco was certain that was why he was tasked with everything he had to do in Sixth Year. Lucius and Narcissa fervently and frequently informed that had nothing to do with it, but even 'til present, Draco wasn't sure he believed them.

When he reached the cluster of chairs situated around a pit, Draco settled into the chair his father had always occupied. It was the largest chair and by far the most comfortable. He grinned, remembering how he used to throw faces at Lucius from the window when his father sat in the same place, talking to foreign investors or other prominent members of the Wizarding World. He only got in trouble if one of the guests happened to see him. Then Lucius had to pretend he was more of a disciplinarian than Narcissa was.

Still grinning, he looked through the window, and his heart leapt.

Narcissa and Lucius were sat not ten meters away from him at the love seat against the window. Their heads were bowed as if they were each reading, but they were both completely oblivious to his presence. Draco's gut churned uncomfortably. They were right there. If one of them looked at the other, they would see him out of the corner of their eye. He wanted to apparate on spot, but he sat and waited. He didn't want them to catch him, but a part of him felt he needed them to catch him. He needed them to tell him to come home. To stay.

Somewhere inside the Manor, their grandfather clock struck with the new hour, and Draco knew he had to leave. He stood slowly and took what time he had left to inch closer to the window. When he was at a comfortable and safe distance, he disapparated in what he hoped was a loud manner.

With a quick tug at his navel, he reappeared in Mulpepper's back alley. Draco closed his eyes and took a grounding breath before pushing the door to the backroom open.

"Hey, kid," the old man greeted at the sight of Draco. "Good break?"

"Why do you ask?" Draco asked defensively.

Merrick passed him some coins, "Miss Granger came by to give you these." The old man dug around in his cloak pockets and produced the book Draco had been reading, "and this. Said she covered your tea and you can buy hers next time."

Draco grunted as he snatched the book from the old man. He could feel the tips of his ears heating up from the look Merrick was giving him, and Draco was thankful his hair was currently mussed enough to hide the color.

"Ought to be careful before people think you're a War Hero magnet."

"It'll be good for business," he replied dryly, echoing Maude's words when she heard the rumor Pansy had started.

The old man barked out a laugh and patted Draco's arm before heading back into the front room. He rolled his eyes as he flipped through the book pages. Ginny. Granger. Who was next? Bloody Harry Potter?

* * *

 **Mmmmm? I don't know why, but the idea of Draco peeing himself when first meeting Voldemort has been in my head for days: so that's how this chapter happened.**

 **Also, I probably should have stated so at the beginning of the fic, but ya'll are in for a slow burn.**

 **Reviews are pretty cool, so let me know what you think!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Look at you jellybeans getting two updates in less than a week. This chapter is brought to you by my love of writing for you all and by my incurable, but productive, procrastination.**

 **Seriously, you all are the best.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own a damned thing.**

* * *

Harry bloody Potter sat down bar-side at the Wyvern, and Pansy dropped the tray of empty mugs she had been balancing in one hand. Pansy fell to her knees quickly, scowling down at the mess she made while trying to compose herself. By some miracle, none of the mugs had shattered, and her feet had been spared the pain of breaking their fall. She let out a soft string of colorful words as she slammed the mugs back in place and magicked them off to the backroom for a washing. What deity was playing a sick joke on her? Or was it Draco? She knew he was still upset with her over Nott's party. She understood he was still upset with her, but surely he wasn't so vindictive as to send Potter to her.

Getting back to her feet with a neutral expression restored, Pansy brushed off her apron and nodded to a couple of the regulars who looked vaguely concerned.

"I'll spit in your drink if you say anything," she warned Tom, who was still cradling a mug of coffee Draco had brought him earlier in the morning.

Tom was a beggar who lived out of a box in the alley across the street from the Wyvern. Draco brought him coffee every morning, and Tom pretended like he didn't know it was Draco Malfoy. She also noticed Draco had recently started bringing Tom a baguette from a nearby bakery each evening. Pansy knew Tom had a daughter who was just older than she and Draco, but she had only made one appearance in the entire time Pansy had been in Knockturn Alley. She couldn't even imagine abandoning your family like that, knowing they were in need. If not for money, at least a kind word. And Pansy knew Draco felt that. He had sort of adopted Tom, as it were. Pansy liked the beggar well enough. He was kind and coughed on Bex when the latter made passes at Pansy.

"First shot is on the house," Pansy told Potter as she put a menu in front of him. "It's watered down bottom shelf, though. If you attract loiterers, we reserve the right to kick you out." She motioned to the other end of the bar, "That's Dove. He'll be manhandling you out should the need arise."

"What the shot?" Potter asked.

Pansy picked the bottle off the shelf and passed it to him. He recoiled after taking a whiff, which caused Tom to giggle like a schoolgirl.

"Can I skip the shot and pay for a drink?"

"It's rude to refuse the Wyvern's hospitality," Dove commented from his end.

Potter frowned at the bottle for a moment before passing it back to Pansy with consent to poor him one. He knocked it back as quickly as she poured it and did a stand up job at not gagging. She grinned at him despite herself and let him know he took it much better than Dove had.

"That's rubbish, Vi, and you know it," Dove barked.

Pansy waved the brute off and asked Potter what he was having. She gave him a skeptical look when he requested a Butterbeer.

"What are you? A sixteen year old schoolboy?" she teased, grabbing a relatively clean mug. "We typically only serve Butterbeer to people who are too drunk to hold much more liquor."

"Or Dove," Tom added.

"Or Dove."

"Tossers," Dove grunted.

"Then what would you suggest?" Potter asked.

"Well, if you're hell bent on Butterbeer, a new pub. If you're adaptable, most are quite content with the house brew. We've got an inside man at Mulpepper's who plays around with the recipe, and no one's complained so far."

"Ah," Potter responded, and Pansy knew Draco—or Mr. Black—came to mind.

"You got a problem with the kid?" Tom said defensively.

"Of course not," Potter answered quickly and earnestly. "I hardly know him."

"There's that rumor circling about Black and Miss Weasley, Tom" Pansy reminded the beggar.

It had been a week since Pansy started it, and a part of her did feel terrible for spreading it. Draco had been avoiding her like the plague, equal parts peeved and non-confrontational. She wanted to say something to him, anything. But whenever she mustered up the courage to apologize, an anger washed over her, and she remembered he abandoned her to play mates with Ginny Weasley. And it stung. She wanted him to feel as shunned as she had been in the moment, but she also wasn't sure how much longer she could go one with the silence. Her regulars and Bex were good company, but they weren't Draco. She wondered if he missed her as much as she missed him.

Nott came into the Wyvern a couple times since the party, and he seemed to think that the rumor had fizzled out as rapidly as it had caught. Pansy thought there was some truth to it. Droves of gossip whores had stopped showing up on their own volition a couple days ago. Draco had brought two of them back to the bar the previous night. He bought each of the girls a drink, started telling them a story, and then hid in the backroom until the girls left an hour later. Pansy had to deal with them asking when he'd be back and if she knew if Ginny Weasley would show up later. She was determined to remember these mindless and loathsome conversations the next time she felt the need to be drunkenly petty.

She poured Potter a mug of Draco's least favorite brew—it had a hint of lemongrass in it. Most of the regulars loved it, but Draco swore it tasted like something died in the vat. Potter seemed to like it, though. He took a tentative sip at first and then a longer gulp for his second. Pansy left him to his own devices while she circled around the Wyvern, picking up tips left on the table (which were always insultingly sparse) and mugs left in dark corners. No one asked for a refill this time around, but she didn't ask anyone if they were ready to close their tab either.

After ten minutes of Pansy keeping busy on the floor, Dove and Potter each asked for more of what they were having, and Tom asked her to heat up his coffee. Pansy swapped out Potter's lemongrass brew for one that had a hint of blood orange. It was Tom's personal favorite when he could afford a mug. She and Dove watched Potter chug the glass as Pansy poured Dove a mix of Firewhiskey and the muggle brew Guinness. Dove was a good Irish wizard.

"He don't look like he can hold much," Dove whispered.

"He fought off the Dark Lord," Pansy murmured in reply. "He could probably drink us all under the table."

Dove hummed in agreement and told Pansy he'd cover Potter's next glass, so Pansy decided she'd give him what Dove usually had after he tried the guava brew.

"I'm Violet," she said to Harry, coming back over to dry dishes in front of him. He had this look on his face. Something similar to the one Draco wore when he wanted to talk about something but didn't want to bother people. Pansy gave him the new brew.

"Harry," he grumbled over his mug.

"Are you all right, Harry?"

"Are any of us all right?"

"Most of us don't down two mugs in less than fifteen, but I'm asking about you."

"I made a promise to someone, and I'm worried I can't keep it."

Pansy perked up, and from the corner of her eye she saw Dove do the same. They didn't get much dramatics coming in and out of the Wyvern, so when it showed up, the two of them were on it like Beaters on a Bludger. Months on months of listening to people's trouble taught Pansy how to remain calm and unaffected even if she was listening to something that genuinely interested her or if something she couldn't give two twigs for. Casually she leaned a hip against the bar, picking up a shot glass and a clean rag.

"Girl troubles?" she pressed nonchalantly.

"Boy troubles," Potter replied, and Pansy's brows shot up. He choked on his drink, waving a hand, "Not like that. I've no complaints with..." he waved a hand, "Ginny and I are happy and secure." Seemingly involuntarily, he rubbed a hand down the side of his trousers. Pansy had seen her brothers make similar gestures, and she wondered if he was holding onto an engagement ring as they had been once upon a time.

When Potter started on about being acquainted with a family people didn't expect him to, Pansy knew exactly who he was talking about. Perhaps if she was just a random tavern wench without any intimate knowledge of Harry bloody Potter, he could have gotten away with ambiguous references to feeling indebted to this family. But she was Pansy Parkinson, and she knew what it was like the harbor feelings or hate, respect, and admiration for a family. Well, she supposed, most people, at some point in their life, knew what it felt like to have contradictory feelings about a family; but Pansy could empathize with the feeling Potter was emoting. And it was one the reasons she knew he was talking about the Malfoy family without ever saying their name.

It was weird, she thought, listening to some speak so intimately about a family she loved so dearly. Potter knew the Malfoys in a way she never would, and she'd by lying if she said it didn't prickle her a little. She had been raised to show the same amount of love and loathing for the Malfoys. Before everything went to the wind, at any moment, Pansy could have been a part of the family or one of their societal rivals. She had to smile and keep an even temper. She had to be appalled by the things they were appalled by and ready to pounce on the appalling things they did. Pansy had been socialized to think like a Parkinson who would do what she could in the best interest of her family name. It didn't matter how much Narcissa adored her or how amusing Lucius found her.

Narcissa saved Harry Potter's life, though, and Boy Wonder felt he could never repay her for that. Halfway through his Guinness and Firewhiskey, he told Pansy that he didn't even think it mattered that Narcissa only saved him to save Draco.

"She could have told him," he commented, taking a long drink from the mug. "It could have all been over then and there."

"People would have continued to fight," Pansy replied quietly. They would have let themselves needlessly be slaughtered, but they would have fought. Detractors and doubters like herself would have been locked away—perhaps publically executed as a display of tenacity—but Voldemort's opponents would have kept fighting. "They always had."

Potter went on, and Pansy was unsure he processed what she said, "I owe my life to every mother I've ever met."

"You would have found a way, kid," Dove said. He had moved several chairs closer throughout Potter's monologue.

The Wyvern received a weird mix of people with different positions on the Second Wizarding War. Dove never seemed to really have an opinion of his own. He usually said what he could to cheer up people who were depressed over something about the War. Mostly because it made him uncomfortable when people drunkenly cried; but also because when they cried, he involuntarily made a cooing sound when trying to comfort them, which was how he earned his nickname. Tom, on the other hand, had a whole bunch of opinions ranging from the Dark Lord being an egotistical maniac to Harry Potter being an egotistical maniac. Frankly, Pansy was impressed he kept his mouth shut this entire time. Bex never spoke much on his opinions, but Pansy knew he welcomingly offered the Wyvern as a meeting spot for those who supported the Dark Lord—though, in those years, which business in Knockturn Alley didn't do the same?

"Yes, well," Potter grunted, trying to scooch in his seat but nearly tumbling over. Pansy and Dove both reached out to steady him. "I told a very important family," he added as if he hadn't just spent the last fifteen minutes clarifying that he was talking about the Malfoys, "that saving my life wouldn't go to waste; and what do I have to show for it?"

Pansy frowned at him. "Are you fishing for compliments, Potter?" He looked taken aback. "By most accounts, you saved the Wizarding World from a very long and gruesome Dark Reign. Most would say that's what you have to show for it."

"Yer talking about saving this woman's son?" Dove asked, and Potter mumbled something incoherently. "Far as I now, Draco Malfoy is doing well for himself."

" _You_ try telling Narcissa Malfoy that, pigeon."

"He's in London."

"Everyone's in London, rooster."

"Yer a lightweight, Harry."

Potter gave them a goofy grin and braced himself on the bar, ducking slighty and growling out, "Yer a wizard, 'Arry."

"Should we call for someone?" Dove asked Pansy as he patted Potter's shoulder.

"Probably ought to sober him up a bit, yeah?"

"I am perfect," Potter said, absolutely not perfect.

Pansy had one of her regulars fetch a potion from Mulpepper's without divulging who the potion was for. The man was there and back within five minutes, and Pansy paid him in drink. The potion took a good ten minutes to work, but Potter was paying for his drinks as soon as the mixture worked its magic. He didn't look the least bit concerned about the mostly one-sided discussion he just had with them, and even departed with a "see you later."

"I like him," Dove told Pansy when the door shut behind Potter. "It's nice to know he feels like a piece of shite, too."

"And how often do you hear Harry Potter lamenting over a bloody Death Eater, eh?" asked the man who brought the potion back.

Dove jumped and Pansy squeaked when Tom shout out a spell that sent the man hurtling into the far wall.

"Tom!" Pansy exclaimed. "Outside!" she added as she hurried over to help the other patron to his feet. She gripped the latter's arm when he made to grab his own wand. "It's not worth it. Just leave him be." She gave the patron a light shove. "Go drink your brew."

She roughly shook front of her jacket and shared a scowl with Dove.

The traffic picked up at the end of the day as her usual seat warmers showed up not long after their day came to a close. Dove took off halfway through the rush when another regular brute came and swapped places. Pansy quickly put his order in front of him and then stormed to the other side of the Wyvern where a mass of brooding witches and wizards had taken up shop in the corner. She recited her usual cool welcome and waited impatiently until they all decided a couple pitchers would suffice. And the night went on as such for a good two hours. No physical fights. Some cat calls. Some threatened curses. Nothing Pansy couldn't handle with her eyes shut and hands fisted behind her back.

She genuinely enjoyed the rushes. Nothing kept her on her toes quite like a bar full of people yelling or the energy that buzzed from the patrons. She could get lost in the quick-paced environment, and the rest of the world would fall away as Pansy focused on specific tasks. It was moments like evening rush that made her cherish where she was in her life. Sure, she loved to dress up. She loved the feel of a satin or silk dress against her skin. But for what? To stand around, holding a champagne flute while pretending to be interested in whatever given man was talking to her? No. Pansy wasn't ready to return to that just yet. She had no reason to return to that life just yet. Thin funds aside, she was doing just fine.

In some stroke of luck, no one else she knew once upon a time wandered into the Wyvern. Although, as the night wore on and the crowd dispersed, Pansy found herself constantly throwing glances over at the door, but she wasn't sure who she was hoping would walk in. Honestly, probably Draco. He should have left Borgins well over an hour ago. There was a very high chance that he had snuck around back and went straight to their flat, but Pansy really just wanted him to come in and sit at the bar. Hell, she'd fix him whatever drink he wanted. If not Draco, though—and she frowned at herself for even entertaining the idea—she supposed Potter wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. He was a rather amusing drunk, and Pansy needed to laugh if she couldn't talk to Draco.

But when last call came around, Draco still had not shown up. She knew he had been by the storefront, because Tom was munching on his baguette across the street.

Pansy stared blankly at the mugs she was filling up. She ought to apologize. It was partially, if not mostly, her fault. The very least she could do was ask Draco why he abandoned her. Then she could either continue ignoring him or move past it. Pansy wondered if their rift was eating at him, too. It's not like he had many other people here to talk to. Though, she reminded herself, Draco apparently had a mate in Ginny Weasley. But Pansy highly doubted Draco was spilling all of Draco Malfoy's secrets to Girl Wonder.

The brute who replaced Dove stayed around until the last of the drunks had cleared out. He helped clear up the glasses at the front of the store, though he knew Pansy could have magicked them into the backroom. And while she set the broom and dustpan to clean, he locked the windows. Pansy didn't even know his name. He was just an imposing figure who leveled other customers with glares when they got too rowdy. When he looked around the room for something to do, Pansy thanked him and subtly herded him towards the door. The regular gave her a thin grin and waved goodbye before passing over the threshold. She locked the door behind him and turned down the blinds with a flick of her wand. She unpinned her hair from its bun, and as she shook it out, the dark blonde color fell from her strands.

Her bar was eerily silent, Pansy noted, as her gaze swept over the room. Of course, it was always quiet when she closed shop, but something about this silence raised the hairs on her arms. Keeping her wand at the ready, Pansy slowly circled the main floor. It wasn't a large space, but there were several blind spots. From the main floor, she went to the bar, where she was convinced some kind of creature would be hiding. But nothing was there. So, without uttering a word, she sent a spell into the backroom. It was a quick, little one that caused a loud band when it entered the room. If anything was hiding, Pansy had hoped the spell would scare it out. However, after the spell sounded, nothing in the Wyvern stirred, save the door to the flat slamming open after a few beats of utter silence.

"Pansy!" Draco yelped from somewhere in the stairwell. "Pan…" her named trailed off on his lips as he barreled through the backroom.

She could feel her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest as Draco withdrew his wand from where he usually hid it. His still darkened hair was sticking up in all directions, so when he ran a hand through it, Pansy didn't know if it was to fix his hair or out of nerves.

"I noticed it as soon as the last customer left," she muttered, following him as he swept the floor.

"Who-"

"A regular from before I started working."

Draco nodded to the bar, "Grab today's earnings, and I'll finish up."

Pansy didn't need telling twice. She hurried over to the register and fumbled to open it as Draco sent a cleaning and fronting spell around the bar. He continued pacing the Wyvern from one end to the other as he did, his eye darting back and forth as if whatever was spooking them would decide to show itself. Pansy's hands were shaking slightly as she emptied the earnings into a pouch and threw a glance around the floor.

She waited for Draco to finish whatever he was in the middle of. He checked the door twice before coming back over to her. Pansy tried to swallow the lump in her throat as they made to leave the area. Draco seemed to sense her nerves, she thought, as he put a reassuring hand at her waist, kissed her temple, and lead the two of them through the backroom. Pansy threw one last look over her shoulder, holding tightly to the earnings.

Would they need to tell Bex? What would they even say to Bex? _Hey, mate, there might be some sort of magical creature in the Wyvern. Can't prove it outside of the creepy crawlies my skin felt._ Bex would howl with laughter and tell the whole bar how barmy she was being. Even if Draco jumped to her defense, she would never live it down.

When they were safely in the comfort of their flat, the two of them put a series of locks on the door and a ward or two for their own sanity.

"What the hell was that?" Draco whispered, leaning close to a wall as if to listen for any outside sounds.

"Everything was fine until that regular left," Pansy told him, untying her apron and draping it over the back of a chair. Her jacket followed as she added, "I've never felt so…violated, I suppose?"

"Are you going to tell Bex?" he asked, turning around to face her. It was the most attention and eye contact they had sustained in a week.

"And be made into a laughingstock? I'll pass," she scoffed.

Draco dropped into the old, creaky loveseat Dove had given them after Draco and Maude Mulpepper had brewed a potion to help the former with an unforgiving _issue_ he had after a night with a dirty customer.

"Borgin got a shipment of magical objects last weekend that are supposed to ward off unwanted spirits. I'll get one from him."

Pansy snorted, "I'm not afraid of a bloody ghost."

"It could be a poltergeist."

"Even better."

"Pansy."

"I'll talk to one of the patrons who's pretty wicked with charms. If nothing pans out there, then we'll discuss bringing the Dark Arts into the Wyvern." He looked at her skeptically. "I don't want to risk an artifact acting up and bringing the wrath of the Aurors down on us."

"I just want to make sure you're safe," he said, and Pansy felt most of the tethers keeping her anchored to her anger lax.

Pansy rolled her eyes, because she didn't want to smile. Tentatively, she sank down next to Draco. When he didn't object or leave, she threw her legs over the arm and lounged dramatically over his lap. He chuckled softly but otherwise remained silent.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she muttered after a while of listening to his even breathing as he read some book that had been on their makeshift side table. "I should have checked my anger before spreading gossip. Sometimes it's hard to remember our actions matter."

Draco's eyes stopped bouncing over the page he was reading, and Pansy could tell her was fixated on something without taking it in. She stared up at him from her position, noting how shallow his breathing had become and the haggard paleness to his already fair skin. She struck a chord within him, but she wasn't sure why her apology would bring out that kind of reaction.

"I'm sorry I ditched you," he replied after a few moments. "We went out to be together, and I left you without so much as a warning." His brow furrowed as he said it. "I'm sorry," Draco repeated.

"Why did you do it?" Pansy asked before he could fully get out the last bit.

Finally, he tore his attention from the book and dropped it down to Pansy. Only for a moment before returning his gaze to the muggle book. The feeling came on rapidly, but Pansy had an intense desire to tear the bloody book from his grasp and send it across the room. She didn't, of course. It would ruin their apology. And it would require her to move.

"I just…" Draco trailed off. "I feel like, at times, I prefer to be Black rather than Draco Malfoy. Don't you feel that way?" he added. "People expect me to act a certain way, say certain things, talk to certain people as a Malfoy. But no one knows who I am as Black. I can talk to anyone I want about anything I want without fear of judgement."

Pansy blinked up at him. Not entirely sure how to respond. Of course she relished the anonymity of being Violet, the tavern wench of the Wyvern. But she was still Pansy Parkinson. She would always be Pansy Parkinson, and if she had the choice of being Violet or Pansy, she would always choose Pansy. Violet was merely a part of her, but she could never rely on Violet to be her.

"You know we're not Violet and Mr. Black, right, Draco?" she finally said, pushing herself up to sit properly. Draco's eyes flew to the ceiling in a half-assed eye roll before settling on Pansy. "Draco Malfoy can talk to anyone he bloody wants to. Violet and Mr. Black are just…" she trailed off this time, pondering her word choice. "Violet and Mr. Black are a set of traits we're developing. They'll be part of Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy, but they're one dimensional. They don't have backstories. They don't have motives, hopes, or fears. They _are_ our hopes and fears." Pansy slugged his shoulder lightly, because she didn't know what else to do. "We can't be defined by our hopes and fears, Draco."

"Merlin," Draco huffed, "you sound like a bloody motivational booklet."

"I am a bloody motivation," she snapped good-naturedly.

Another few minutes of comfortable silence passed between them. Pansy tested out some braiding style on her hair as Draco lost himself in the muggle book. The author's name, which was typed in bold face on the front cover, was vaguely recognizable. She wasn't a complete boor: she knew _some_ prominent muggles. It didn't escape her notice that this might have been one of the first muggle names Draco was exposed to, though. The Malfoys and Parkinsons may have come from very long lines of Pureblood wizards, but Pansy's family was far more forgiving of rebellious activity. She had three brothers who had all experimented with muggle literature at some point in their life. Draco was an only child, though. He was expected to live and breathe Pureblood mantras and reflect Pureblood beliefs. Or, at least, he had been.

She opened her mouth to tease his reading choices, but Draco spoke first.

"I visited the Manor today."

Her hands stilled over the current weaving pattern she was working on.

"I was upset and thought I was apparating with no destination in mind, but I ended up at the Manor." Pansy refrained from reminding him how dangerous it was to apparate like that. Instead, she drew her knees to her chest. "I ended up in the flower garden. I didn't go in, if you were wondering," she told her with a glance in her direction.

Pansy shook her head.

"I just couldn't bring myself to do it, you know?" He finally set the book down on his lap.

"Were they home?"

"No," Draco said, and his lips twitched into something like a grimace. "They must have had a meeting or something."

"You should visit them," she replied decidedly.

"We'll see," he muttered. Draco licked his lips and picked his book back up. "I've got a lot of work at Mulpepper's and Borgins." He gave her a shrug when Pansy protested.

Pansy let the subject go. She wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a tight hug before telling Draco not to stay up too late and then heading off to bed.

She laid awake in bed, though, staring up at the sheets that canopied her room. The day's events played through her mind on an unending loop and called forth questions that wouldn't let her rest. What was Harry Potter even doing in Knockturn Alley? Why was everyone and their mother treating her little slice of the world as an escape? Had these wankers not fought tooth and nail to keep Knockturn Alley culture contained? Why wouldn't these people just let sleeping dogs lie?

Grunting, Pansy flopped over on her stomach and turned her head towards the window. She didn't have blinds or curtains on it, but Knockturn Alley seemed to be perpetually cast in shadows. A small beetle rested in the corner of the pane outside, and Pansy thought about opening the window to squash it in her agitated state but decided against it. It wasn't the beetle's fault she had a bad day. A bad few weeks, really. And Pansy was content to blame the reintroduction of the Gryffindors in their life. They had been sailing smooth until that night.

Pansy pushed herself up, unable to sleep. Her gaze fell on the earnings from the Wyvern, which were placed on a stool in the corner. When she checked to make sure the light in the living room was out, she dragged her butt out of bed and over to the earnings. Pansy had done it countless times, but she still felt a pang of guilt and nerves when she dipped her hand in the pouch and grabbed a handful of the coin. She counted out a reasonable amount before dropping what she took into the handbag she kept under her mattress. Letting out an shaky breath, Pansy settled back into bed and tried to get at least a couple hours of sleep before facing the next day.

* * *

 **I really liked writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed reading it!**

 **You're super cool. Reviews are super cool. Lucissa and Dramione are super cool. _*nudges you with a goofy grin*_**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi! Thank you all for the responses! You all are so kind, and I absolutely adore you.**

 **Little bit of Dramione in this, if you squint and compare it to the rest of the fic.**

 **Disclaimer: Nada**

* * *

"Damnit," Draco muttered when the smell of oranges assaulted him. He looked up from the order book at the unwelcome guest standing just below the ' _Welcome'_ sign. And because he was a good employee, he greeted, "Granger."

A wide smile broke out across her face, and Draco sent a sidelong glance at Maude who was filing her nails in the corner. He hadn't seen Granger since he left her at the café three days ago, and they had been a pleasantly calm three days. It was only right Granger decide to ruin his week. She pushed the hood of her cloak off her head as she poked through the potions Maude had on display. The old woman hated when customers manhandled her displays. Draco assumed Maude let her do so, because Granger kept her gloves on. Or because she was Hermione bloody Granger and could ruin the new spike in Maude's business with a sneer.

Ginny and the old man were on a supply run today; and even though it should have only taken a few hours, Draco and Maude knew the two of them would make a day of it. Their regular supplier was going through a bitter divorce or some other personal drama and had claimed he was too upset to make the rounds that week. So the old man volunteered to round all their supplies up, and Maude sent Ginny with him. The two of them left hours ago, bouncing around like it was some school trip to Hogsmeade. Maude had watched them go with a scowl, commenting to Draco that the others were far too chirpy far too early.

So their day had been easy. Maude preferred working with the potions to the front room, so she and Draco took turns manning the register and order book. When Granger had walked in, Maude was waiting for two different cauldrons to cool down and another one to finish washing itself. When customers realized Ginny and the funny old man weren't about, they typically were in and out without bothering Draco and Maude.

Except for Hermione Granger who had taken it upon herself to be Draco's personal nightmare.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" Maude asked without taking her attention off her nails.

Draco fidgeted with the quill in his fingers, tapping it against the top of the order book.

Granger shook her head, "Just looking."

Maude looked Draco up and down, scrutinizing his posture in a way she hadn't done in the past, and then tucked away her file.

"I'll be in the back if you need anything," Maude said with a pointed glance at the artifact from Borgin's which alerted her to any theft. "Black, take your break."

"You're insufferable," Draco snapped after Maude had disappeared. It only made Granger laugh lightly. "Let's do this, yeah?" he added, motioning to the door. He grabbed his cloak from the chair and followed Granger into the cold November afternoon.

"How are you liking the book?" she asked, hiding her hands under her cloak.

"It's all right," Draco lied. He loved it. Finished it in a day and was working on a second read through. "Muggles don't have the same way with words as wizards do."

"Naturally," she replied sarcastically.

Granger looked happy, Draco thought. Happier than most people he knew and certainly more expressive than anyone he knew. He wondered how she had coped with the war since the dust settled. People like Nott and, as he understood, Ron Weasley threw themselves into their work. Long days and even longer nights, pouring over whatever they could to book their time. Longbottom was apparently learning about being a business owner. He had heard a few people he knew in passing were now residents at St. Mungos, more still were _gone_ , and others were just getting by. But Granger was happy.

And Merlin almighty was she a talker. Had Hermione Granger ever been someone so chatty? Not that he would know, he supposed. What annoyed him more than her prattling, though, was that he was listening to her. Not actively by any definition, but he heard everything she was saying and could probably recite it back if someone asked him to.

She had been offered some position within the Ministry after leaving Hogwarts, he gathered, but she turned it down as she didn't think she had any formal training for the job. Draco didn't ask what the career was, but he knew she was happy about where she was now—a paid intern for some sector in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Her preference were the cases where she got to work with House Elves, which wasn't really surprising to Draco. Granger told him that the hours were a little too lax for her liking, but she made up by tutoring muggle and magical children during the summer months or when she could on weekends.

The upcoming weekend was one she usually allotted to tutoring muggle children, but an event at the Ministry would take up her time. Draco groaned internally. It was a charity event for orphans of the war, the first of its kind. He had known about it for months, and Draco and Pansy had argued over it extensively. Were they required to attend? Nott had told them that he was told by Millicent Bulstrode who was told by Blaise Zabini that there was high expectations for anyone associated with the Death Eaters to attend. Pansy ardently refused to go the entire first month after they found out. She hadn't been a Death Eater. Her parents hadn't marred their forearms for the Dark Lord. She felt no necessity to go. It took Draco a good three and a half weeks to convince her to come with him. Pansy wasn't innocent, and he reminded her of the fire of gossip she would be under if she didn't show. All it would take was one person who thought she ought to be there.

The whole situation was unpleasant, and he found it even more so knowing Granger would definitely be there.

He didn't comment on his own attendance, though, and Grander didn't inquire.

When they walked into the café, she was updating him on Winky, who he was interested in. The worker raised a hand to greet them and said he'd bring their normal order to Draco's table.

"She has been itching," Granger told Draco after he asked. "But the ointment seems to be helping? At least, according to Kreacher."

"What is Kreacher?" Draco asked despite himself. Though, he thought he may have heard his mother mention the name on several occasions years ago, before he met Granger who did mention it from time to time.

"Kreacher is Harry's House Elf," she said, pulling her hair back with a band. Draco noticed she couldn't even wrap it twice. The world around them was changing, but Granger's hair seemed it never would. "Well, he was the Black's House Elf, but Harry inherited him when Sirius died—Sirius was Harry's godfather. Winky's Kreacher's mate. She used to work in the Kitchen at Hogwarts, but her drinking got too bad."

He hummed in acknowledgement, thinking on the House Elf who used to work for his parents. Granger attempt to steer the conversation towards his own experience with House Elves, and, truly, he thought about telling her about that Elf; but when he mulled over the words in his mind, the experience just seemed too personal. The Malfoys were hardly kind to their help, notoriously so, and he didn't feel like letting Hermione bloody Granger into that part of his life. She had somehow managed to weasel her way into his current reality: she could remain there, but not his past. So he shut her inquiry down with a look that he had hoped was withering. Granger just gave him a small grin, which irked him more than it should have.

Something in him wanted to say something just to get a rise out of Granger—to see if he could still do it. Draco didn't think calling her a mudblood would get her to leave, though, and he didn't even think he could bring himself to say it.

So Draco pulled his book out his cloak when Granger dug through her handbag for something (her own book). But he had trouble focusing on his book for too long. He would read a couple pages and then find himself glancing at Granger to see what she was doing. Each time, she was engrossed in her book. A thick tome with no title on the spine or cover, just finely bound pages protected by a deep purple cover. Granger's brow was furrowed slightly in concentration. Her jaw was clenched the same way Pansy's did when she was reading the social pages of the Daily Prophet. Draco noted how Granger's eyes darted over the pages quickly, but he didn't think she had flipped the page since pulling it out. It was probably a reference book, he surmised.

He startled when the worker put their tea on the table.

"Thank you," Granger chimed, setting her book on her lap momentarily.

"What are you reading?" Draco asked her, though he swore he had meant to tell her they were splitting the bill.

"A History of Wizarding Law," she supplied while giving her tea a splash of milk.

"It sounds awful."

"Oh, it's incredibly dry," Granger replied, "but I suppose not every book can be A History of Magic."

He frowned at her.

"I'm kidding!" she laughed. "I don't love _everything_ I read. Although, I do find Merlin's era pretty fascinating."

"Everyone finds Merlin's era fascinating." Draco took a sip of his tea and started, "Well, Pansy," but cut himself off. He cleared his throat, throwing a unnecessary look about, before focusing his attention back on his book.

Granger began spitting out some of her favorite tidbits about Merlin's _Age of Magic_ , the last of his books she had read. Draco half paid attention to his book as he nodded along to what the witch across from him was saying. He corrected her when she interpreted something Merlin wrote to mean he was an open, welcoming person. In any work Draco had ever read of Merlin's, the impression was that Merlin was content to live alongside muggles; but he was in no way open to bridging links between the wizarding world and the muggle world. Ten minutes into their back-and-forth, Draco had a feeling she brought up the subject to purposefully draw him in. He wasn't about the concede to defeat, though, so he kept arguing with her.

The rest of his hour passed by quicker than he accounted for after the debate began. He almost missed the quarter of the hour, merely catching sight of the time by chance when a nearby wizard checked his pocket watch. Draco passed Granger some coins, apologizing before quickly ducking out the café. He clutched his cloak tight around his neck and doubled pace to get back to Mulpepper's on time.

Maude was behind the counter with a dumb smirk on her face when he nearly broke through the front door. His timecard behind the counter slid back into place easily, a green checkmark appearing beside today's date before it did. Draco had never been late for a shift, and he wasn't particularly interested in finding out the punishment for tardiness.

"Are you dating Hermione Granger, Mr. Black?" Maude asked, teasingly.

Draco gave his employer a side eye before he passed into the backroom.

"I wouldn't judge you if you were, love," she said, following him. "It's quite cute, isn't it? Although, I do wonder how your friendship with our darling Ginny would fare."

"Has someone spiked your coffee, Maude?" He frowned as he tied his apron. "You're sounding mad."

"You're a good worker, lad, but I will fire you if your social life interferes with your work here."

Draco stared back at her blank face for a moment before nodding. He rolled his eyes when she turned away from him. A social life? What social life? He was here from sunrise to sunset, and Maude knew he went immediately to Borgin's. And she also knew neither location paid him well enough for anything outside living. He snatched the braid of garlic from nearby. Draco wondered if Maude thought he was getting too comfortable. He didn't always take so long on his breaks, so perhaps she thought he was on track to slack.

Later on in the week, the day of the Ministry's even, Maude's comments floated around his mind as he and Nott stood in front of a large washroom mirror, adjusting their appearance. This wasn't a social life: it was a duty. Consequences for his actions. A small price to pay for the horrors he committed and allowed others to commit.

"You all right, mate?" Nott asked, patting his shoulder.

"I'm fine," Draco responded, running a hand over his blonde locks. They felt heavy with the product. Even the potion he used to darken his hair in Knockturn Alley didn't weigh it down. Maybe he was being ridiculous. Perhaps his anxiety was going to his head. He looked fine. He looked like Draco Malfoy. "Thanks for the robes," he added.

"Course. Shall we?"

One of the finer wings of the Ministry had been well decorated for this event. They had passed the main hall in their search for the washroom, and Draco was rather interested in seeing the more intricate decorations. The main hall of the wing was done up with fine colors. Deep purples and teals, complemented by silver finishes and a splash of white opal. The hall had two high chandeliers illuminating the colors so that the room wasn't too heavy with the darker colors. Sheer curtains covered the windows and let in what little light was left of the day. His mother used the same technique when she used to host parties at the Manor. Both of his parents had always preferred darker tones, but the lighting added an element to their rooms that lighter accents wouldn't do.

On their way to the main hall, he and Nott passed a few other rooms that were part of the event's display. Different charities and organizations that helped orphans or housed them. Each room was devoted to informing guests of the struggled orphans faced, but also what the charities were accomplishing through volunteers and philanthropy. Draco figured he and Pansy would peruse the rooms together just before leaving. Then they could go back to the Wyvern and drink themselves silly with the images fresh in their mind.

Draco felt eyes on him as he walked beside Nott. When was the last time he made a public appearance? Had it been so long? He supposed it had been long enough to drum up gossip. People were absolutely bonkers that night at Nott's when they saw Pansy. He heard people talking about her all night long until she gave them something else to talk about. Draco imagined he was a little more exciting than Pansy was for people. The Malfoys had been in the spotlight his entire life—and long before—and it was a bit of an adjustment for the wizarding world to go completely without hearing of them and from them.

Pansy was chatting with one of the Healers from St. Mungo's when Draco and Nott walked in. She looked absolutely stunning, Draco thought. She had spent the entire morning with her grandmother, getting her hair and makeup done and being properly primped for her dress. Pansy had done a fine job herself of cleaning up before departing for her grandmother's, but the people her grandmother paid really added that socialite shine to her appearance. Despite her glitzy look, though, Draco could tell she felt miserable. It was the slight tension in her shoulders and the way the fingers of her left hand twitched.

"This is bizarre," Draco commented quietly.

"I'm afraid it's relatively normal for me," Nott replied. "I feel I spend more time cozying up to potential donors than doing medical work."

"I do nothing but work."

"And take tea with Granger, I hear."

Draco fixed Nott with a glare. The latter held up his hands and grabbed two champagnes from a passing server.

"Drink up and find your parents, yeah? I'll save that Healer from Pansy," Nott added and left Draco alone.

He had barely been alone for half a minute before some of his old acquaintances assaulted him. Where had he been? Was he alone? Had he seen Pansy Parkinson? Was he here with Pansy? Didn't he miss the good old days where he wasn't guilt-tripped into attending an event? Had he heard Daphne Greengrass' elderly husband recently passed? Questions on questions of trivial gossip, thinly veiled comments on _the good old days_ , and one or two propositions. Honestly, he felt a little off his game. He and Pansy should have practiced idle prattle in the week leading up to this. Though, he guessed not talking to some of these idiots is something he would have done in the past anyway. Add in a sneer or two, and he was good.

Draco reached the bar after a half an hour speaking with the Carrow twins, Flora and Hestia. Talking with them was less painful than he anticipated. He mostly stumbled into their own conversation about Flora's apprenticeship with a respectable Potions Master in Belfast. He had barely spoken with either of them at Hogwarts, but they didn't seem to mind him discussing potion-making with them. The bartender nodded to him when he asked for a Firewhiskey neat.

Lucius and Narcissa were easy enough to find. The deeper he got into the room, the more familiar with people he was. Their murmurs and quick looks lead him right to his parents. Seemingly unaffected by the storm of whispers around them, the Malfoys stood by the large windows in conversation with Andromeda Tonks. An aunt he knew in name only. He thought he had seen her once when he was a child, but his mother always reminded him that no Tonks were welcomed at the Manor. He wondered what she would even be doing here. From the way his mother and Bellatrix talked, it sounded like Andromeda had sworn off wizard events. Something turned in his gut, though, when he heard someone nearby mention Lupin's name. Of course. The war had made an orphan of Andromeda's grandson. Naturally she'd attend.

"Oh, my darling," Narcissa cut Lucius off mid-sentence when she spotted Draco. She passed her drink off to Lucius and wrapped Draco in possibly the tightest embrace he had ever experienced. "You feel underweight: are you eating?"

Narcissa let him go after a socially acceptable amount of time. His parents may have turned recluse, but they weren't uncivilized. It didn't matter if his mother was an emotional wreck right now, she wouldn't look it.

"I'm eating fine, mother," Draco replied, kissing both of her cheeks. He gave his father a grin and handshake, but he couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling of wanting to hug both of his parents. Draco had never been particularly affectionate, but seeing them brought out something he would rather keep buried.

His mother latched onto his left arm, situating him between herself and Lucius as if she were afraid he would make a run for it.

"Draco, darling," Narcissa started, "this is my sister Andromeda."

"Lovely to meet you, Draco," Andromeda smiled. He noted that she looked awfully similar to Bellatrix. Perhaps a little less _rough_ , though a little worn. Probably from living well below the society the Blacks and Malfoys were accustomed to. "Your parents rarely talk about anything other than you."

"Oh, that's not true," Lucius said.

"Yes," Narcissa added, "we frequently comment on the weather."

"It's a pleasure," Draco nodded to Andromeda. "I hope your grandson is doing well."

Andromeda's smile widened. She had the same smile as his mother and Bellatrix. "He's quite well, thank you." She clasped her hands in front of her and glanced around. "He's here somewhere. Wherever his godfather has gone off to."

Lucius gave Draco a pointed look, but Draco wasn't quite sure what his father was trying to communicate.

His parents and Andromeda seemed to pick back up the conversation they had been having before he arrived, discussing some cocktail party Andromeda and Narcissa had both attended the other weekend. From what he understood of their conversation, it seemed to Draco that his parents had not kept up the same hermit lifestyle as when he had left them. He wouldn't say they were the same 'new gala every weekend' Malfoys, but Narcissa certainly seemed to take tea with Andromeda frequently. And from the inside jokes that went well over his head, even his father seemed to have indulged. He was even more surprised when both of his parents laughed at a reference Andromeda made to bloody Harry Potter.

Draco stared at his parents when Andromeda excused herself.

"Well, don't stand there gawking, darling," Narcissa lightly chastised. She detached herself from Draco, adjusting his tie before taking Lucius' proffered hand.

"It's a general reaction to an odd situation," he replied.

"What's odd is that none of the Flints decided to attend."

"I am in my twenties, and this is the first time I've ever met Andromeda."

Narcissa leveled him with a look. _That_ look.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Draco grunted and followed his parents as they made their rounds.

He felt like a child again at times, standing quietly beside them while they mingled with all the respectable people. The faces and positions may have changed, but the routine never would. They would laugh at poor jokes told by old men. They would coo over bad photos of ugly babies. They would turn an expression when required. The war may have thinned out the mites in the woodwork, but it did little to change anything else.

Draco found himself paying closer attention to his parents this time. They played the same people they always were in society, but he noticed small changes in their conversations and their overall body language. When they spoke to people who had been deeply situated in similar circles before the war, the conversation was quick. Barely anything between the greeting and farewell. A couple times they didn't even draw Draco into the conversation—which was fine by him—before they were moving on to another part of the room. Those his parents tended to stay in conversation with longer were people who hadn't been ardent supporters of the Dark Lord and those who vocally opposed him. He didn't really understand if Narcissa and Lucius were sticking closer to them because that was the new image they wanted people to associate with Malfoy or if they were partly hoping to dampen their own elitist positions by exposing themselves to more moderate and progressive opinions. A bit of both, he concluded.

There was more than their interactions with others, though. Draco noted his parents were far more affectionate with each other. For as far back as he could remember, his parents upheld a strict code for public displays of affection. They always stood close to each other but never touched, unless it was Narcissa's hand in the crook of Lucius's elbow. And if it was a more casual public appearance, Lucius would let his hand rest on Narcissa's mid-back while they stood about. Today, though, they were holding hands, smiling at each other, and exchanging glances like they were two smitten seventh years. Draco even saw his father kiss the back of his mother's hand when they thought he wasn't watching.

It was _bizarre_. He felt like he had entered into a different world.

After nearly two hours of making conversation with various people at the event, his parents finally began to relax. They took a seat at their table while Draco found a server who would bring them three glasses of finer champagne than they were serving.

"How is Pansy, darling?" Narcissa asked when Draco settled down beside her. "We saw her arrive with her grandmother earlier."

"She seems to be harassing every Healer from St. Mungo's in attendance," Draco said, glancing around to see if she was anywhere nearby. "Theodore Nott is with her to make sure she doesn't assault them."

"Everyone's so curious to know what you two have been up to," Lucius told Draco, nodding to someone who passed them. "I have to say, I'm usually at a loss for words," he added and received a sharp look from Narcissa.

"Nothing you'd find too exciting," Draco laughed and hoped he sounded casual. "Exploring London. Helping people when we can. I think Pansy's writing a book. I won't see her for days on end sometimes," he lied easily.

"Six months is a long time to be doing nothing exciting," Lucius responded, eyeing Draco critically. It took all his willpower not to squirm under his father's stare.

"We're all coping, Lucius," Narcissa said quietly. The three of them remained silent for a moment as Lucius's gaze flittered between his son and wife.

"You can't live like that forever, Draco."

Draco barked out an involuntary laugh, thinking on his real situation.

"I know, I promise. It's a reprieve right now. You're more than welcome to visit us, if you'd like. Pansy's family has been especially gracious with the living situation."

"We'll come soon," Narcissa assured him like they always told Pansy.

He wondered how much his parents questioned. They clearly didn't believe him to some extent. But Draco wasn't sure how much of his lie they truly believed and how much they were just indulging him. He had no real responsibilities as Draco Malfoy. He could waste his early twenties. If the war hadn't happened, if things had been like they were when he was born, he would have spent his early twenties testing the strength of his liver and libido. As his mid-twenties approached, he would have been introduced to a handful of women looking to be the future Mrs. Malfoy. And he would continue to test his liver and libido. In his late twenties, he would work alongside his mother for Malfoy Apothecary, behind the scenes work, doing next to nothing for a ridiculous amount of money. He would marry one of the paraded women. And he would continue to test his liver and libido.

Perhaps his parents saw this year as part of his wasted twenties.

But they didn't give any indication they knew what he was really doing. Sure, they seemed skeptical, but Draco did not imagine they would venture into Knockturn Alley looking for him.

Draco looked on as his parents cackled over something Narcissa said that he completely missed. Maybe they would have discouraged him from testing his libido. As far as he knew, both of them skipped that part of elite youth culture.

Lucius was telling him about some dinner Andromeda was hosting in a couple weeks when Draco caught sight of Pansy making her way towards them. She was scowling as much as she could in a public setting, but Draco knew her well enough to see it. It was something in her jaw. The reason for her expression was just behind her.

Granger. Because of course it was.

His parents' cocked their head to the side, almost comically, when they noticed Draco stiffen.

"Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy," Pansy greeted with a wide smile. "It's so good to see you. You remember Hermione Granger, I'm sure." Pansy glanced warily at Draco as she presented Granger to his parents. "We were just discussing magical artifacts, and I thought she would love to pick your brain, Mr. Malfoy, seeing as they're a hobby of yours."

Narcissa's brow furrowed in confusion, and Draco assumed Granger had been talking Pansy's ear off. She was pawning the witch off on them. Lucius, though, remained impassive. He gazed blankly back at Pansy, who frowned under the attention.

"Well, I'm off," Pansy said instead. "There are several champagnes I have not tried."

"You look well," Granger told them, fidgeting with the fabric at the waist of her dress. Draco got more satisfaction out of her discomfort than he probably should have.

"We are well," Narcissa replied, openly taking in Granger's appearance. "You have a snag in your dress."

Granger looked down at her sleeve and toyed with it as she said, "Oh, yes. There was a mishap in one of the charity rooms, and my dress was collateral damage." She laughed at herself and then cleared her throat when none of the Malfoys joined in.

"Are you not an adept witch? Can you not fix it?" Lucius asked.

"It's just a dress," Granger chuckled lightly, albeit slightly uncomfortably.

"So you've taken up a new hobby, Granger?" Draco said to deter his parents critique of Granger's dress.

Granger sat down beside Draco and began prattling on about the books she had been reading on magical artifacts from early 20th century Tunisia. She threw both of his parents off, but he didn't really find that surprising. She came on like a storm, and Narcissa and Lucius hadn't really processed her rapid fire speech. What did surprise Draco, though, was that Lucius seemed to indulge her first. He was absolutely still guarded and suspicious of Granger's presence, but he was engaged in her sermon. Lucius even nodded along a couple times when Granger said something astute.

His mother, on the other hand, kept her cool composure. She sat with her hands folded in her lap; her chin held high and haughtily; and her expression bordered between carefully blank and disparaging. Draco even caught Narcissa sending a look in Lucius's direction that he assumed was her way of being disapproving.

"You have some fascinating ideas," Lucius commented while Draco was flagging over a server.

"Firewhiskey neat," Draco requested from the waiter as Granger told Lucius about a trip she was hoping to take to see the newest relic that recently surfaced in Gabès.

"Make it two," Narcissa added.

Ten minutes into Granger's conversation with his father, Draco grew utterly paranoid. They had ventured into discussing Borgin and Burkes, and he worried that one of them would suggest a trip. Which was a laughable image itself. To her credit, Draco thought Granger was attempting to steer the conversation away from Knockturn Alley. She mentioned other shops around England that collected artifacts, but Lucius swore that Borgin's was the only shop worth the price. Draco didn't think Granger knew he spent most nights at Borgin's, but he assumed she thought that Lucius would happen upon him at Mulpepper's. It was kind of her, and Draco didn't particularly know how to feel about being on the receiving end of Hermione Granger's kindness like this.

"I should get going," Granger said after another ten minutes. "I promised to show someone around the displays."

"It was a pleasant surprise talking to you, Miss Granger," Lucius replied, and Granger visibly preened.

Narcissa lightly scoffed, but Draco was sure he was the only one who heard her.

"Likewise, Mr. Malfoy. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening. Mrs. Malfoy, Draco." And she left them to their own company.

"Who knew," Lucius muttered to himself.

"Indeed, love," Narcissa hummed shrewdly.

His parents stayed another hour before deciding the night was getting late. The first quarter of the hour was spent in silence while Lucius and Draco drank, and Narcissa silently glared at her husband after he mentioned something he should have told Granger. Draco didn't think his mother's reaction to Granger was that out of place. Draco had spent nearly all of his school years complaining about Granger, claiming she was the reason he would never be top of the class. Any little thing that went wrong in his academic career, his teenage-self rationalized was Granger's fault. His mother owed no family allegiance to Granger as she did with Andromeda—who she had always considered a blood traitor. Narcissa wasn't an unreasonable woman, but she was deeply entrenched in their blood superiority upbringing and affected by Draco's experience. Even if his mother recognized Granger's adeptness and intelligence, she would most likely always be the girl who one-upped her son.

Narcissa had significantly cooled down by the time she and Lucius were ready to leave, though. She even held his hand as Draco walked them towards the exit.

"Don't let so much time pass before we see you again, darling," Narcissa demanded of Draco. "And make sure you're eating balanced meals."

"Of course, mother," Draco laughed as he kissed her cheeks.

"I can recommend an excellent kitchen staff."

"There's no need, mother."

"Well, at least come by for a meal every once in a while."

"We have a new cook, who makes the most delicious bread pudding," Lucius informed him.

"I'll send you an owl, I promise," Draco assured them.

Pansy showed up beside Draco as he watched his parents walk down the hall towards the room where several Floo networks were located.

"Traitor," he murmured.

"Merlin's beard, she was talking my ear off. You'd think we were mates once upon a time," Pansy grunted. "She and Nott were talking about some bloody volunteer organization they both participate with, and then he left me with her."

"Do you want to leave?" Draco sighed, feeling quite done with the day.

"I kind of want to drink until they kick us out."

Draco glanced at her. "Are you all right?"

"Are you really going to pass up free alcohol, Draco Malfoy?" she asked. "Come on, we'll drink until our liver can take no more and then sob obscenely over the displays. It'll be fun."

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 **Ehhh?**

 **I love the Malfoys as much as the next Malfoy fan, but I don't want to sugarcoat their glaring elitism. So bear with me (and them) over their next several appearances.**

 **Reviews are cool. You're cool. J.K. Rowling is cool.**


	8. Chapter 8

**So it's been like a year since I started this story. Crazy. Especially considering I had high hopes so update regularly (sorrrrryyyyy). But here's this chapter. I'm kind of on the fence about it, but it's seriously been sitting in Doc Manager for weeks now. I just needed to get it out before I tossed it.**

 **OH. ALSO. News not related to this story: It apparently escaped my notice that one of my first fics Behind Closed Doors ((any friends reading this fic remember that?-it's been years, ya'll)) is no longer up (and I don't have it on this computer or in any of my emails). So I am attempting to rewrite it. I can't promise it'll be exactly the same as the original, but I am doing my best to recreate it. While I don't remember certain specifics, I do have a handle on the overall outline, which gives me plenty to work with. And, hey, I like to think my writing quality has improved since I first wrote BCD, so that's a positive. That being said, if you did read it/remember it and have a specific scene coming to mind, please feel free to message me about it! It might not make it into the final edit, but it could definitely help regardless!**

 **Anyway. Onward.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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As December rolled in, Pansy noted the increase in patrons. She knew better than anyone that the holidays drew people towards taverns and cheap liquor all around. There wasn't a social class in the wizarding world that was exempt from the strain. Rich children demanding for bigger and better presents each year with rich parents caving in. Poor children asking for any kind of present, and poor parents cutting corners and robbing Peter to pay Paul. Those in the middle, Pansy noticed, naturally fell in the middle. Children wanted expensive gifts, so parents cut corners. Children asked, and parents caved: it was the same story in different forms from every mother or father trying to get knackered off of cheap beer.

Many of the businesses in Knockturn Alley began preparations for the upcoming holidays by adjusting their hours, selling new goods or services, hiring a few more heads, or just completely closing down until late January. Bex changed nothing, though he did press Dove to come in more often in case the crowd got too rowdy. He even offered the brute a discount, so Dove stayed nearly the entire day. Pansy made sure to keep a copy of the Daily Prophet behind the counter for him, and she had convinced Bex to stock a few books in the back, too. Bex himself also stayed longer than his usual several hours in the morning or at night. The whole first week of December, he was there to help open, left for several hours around noon, and came back to help Pansy close up.

One of the businesses that closed up shop for the season was Borgin and Burkes. It was a bit of a shock among the residents of Knockturn Alley. Borgin always kept the shop open, even on proper holidays; but Draco sulked at the end of the bar a couple weeks back, and Pansy had to coax the information out of him. Borgin had told Draco that he just needed a change of scenery and left it at that. Draco was welcome to keep going into the shop to work if he wanted, but he wouldn't be paid. Borgin did promise that his shop would be open for only fifty minutes on Christmas Eve at four in the morning. Bex and Dove keeled over with laughter for a good five to ten minutes when Draco told them: leave it to Borgin to turn people into bloody lunatics, because he would most certainly find his shop packed.

Draco had been rather closed-lipped about the entire situation, but Pansy assumed he was fighting anxiety on the inside. His work at Borgin and Burkes didn't bring in much funds, but it brought in enough. That ordeal, coupled with Bex's increased presence, stayed Pansy's hand when it came to the Wyvern's earnings at the end of each day.

Everything she had managed to stow away sat heavily at her hip as she stood in front of one of the fine jewelers in Diagon Alley. The old man twirled a decorative hair comb from France in front of him. She had received as a gift on her sixteenth birthday after her father missed it to be with his French mistress. The old man hummed appreciatively before lowering his wand and the comb along with it.

Pansy shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the hood of her cloak to hide her profile better from the other customers. She was there as Pansy Parkinson, but she had no desire for the rest of the wizarding world to know what she was doing. Which is why she wasn't entirely surprised when a group of four women walked into the shop while the old man had left Pansy alone as he consulted something in the back.

Granger, Ginny Weasley, and two others who she vaguely recognized from Hogwarts wandered in loudly, laughing and rubbing their arms for warmth. Pansy turned her back to them, bracing the counter for a moment before regaining her composure. She stared down at the counter with her hands folded under her cloak.

"…just don't make any sense to me," Weasley was saying. "It's hardly a surprise if you're going around to jewelers and setting aside options for him."

"The surprise is _how_ it happens," the taller of the two other women said. "If you're in a long term relationship, you're pretty much guaranteed marriage anyway."

"That's ridiculous," Granger and Weasley scoffed in unison. Pansy risked a glance over to find Weasley stone-faced while Granger looked as if she wished to be anywhere but there.

"The longevity of a relationship doesn't necessarily mean people are allowed to marry," the last of their group told the taller one pointedly. Pansy stared at her through the small mirror beside her, but she couldn't recall the woman's name for the life of her.

Weasley nodded in agreement and smiled, saying something to her companions that Pansy couldn't hear.

"Miss," the old man quietly interrupted Pansy's appreciation of the light blush spread over the woman's cheeks. "This is an exquisite piece. We're prepared to offer you this sum," he said as he passed Pansy a small rolled piece of parchment, "in store credit."

"Store credit?" Pansy spat in a hushed tone and without unrolling the parchment. "What respectable establishment offers store credit?"

"Many jewelers—"

"But not the best."

The old man offered to get his manager when Pansy snatched the comb away from him.

"If your manager is going to offer me store credit, you needn't bother."

"Is there a problem here?" another associate asked, coming beside the old man. "I'll talk with the manager," he added after the old man told him Pansy didn't want store credit.

 _Merlin almighty_ , Pansy groaned internally. She threw a quick and paranoid look around the store. Her paranoia told her that everyone was watching her, but everyone appeared preoccupied with their own task in the store.

When the old man turned his attention away from her, Pansy spun and made to hurry out of the store. The sooner she distanced herself from the scene, the sooner she would feel content to be out in public. In truth, she probably should have known better than to try and sell anything with the holidays coming up. If the clerks weren't testy, the crowds would be. She rarely had a good experience shopping during the holiday season. Even when she wanted to be out in the public eye, the holidays had a way of bringing out the worst in everyone. So she would try her luck in a different store with much less foot traffic.

As soon as she turned, though, she collided with Weasley and the shorter of her companions.

"God, make a noise or something," Pansy snapped at the women.

"Most people don't turn with a flourish," Weasley frowned.

"I do _not_ flourish," Pansy scoffed, side stepping and whipping her cloak with a flourish. Intentionally, she told herself.

"You could at least apologize," she said before Pansy could take off.

"For you hovering? I'm sorry you felt the need to hover and invade my personal space," Pansy replied and rolled her eyes.

"Ginny, what do you..." the taller companion trailed off as she approached and took in the scene. "Oh. Parkinson," she greeted curtly.

Pansy stared back at her, remaining silent. Mostly because she had no idea who was addressing her. However, she let out an annoyed huff of breath when Granger made her way toward the tense little group. She knew it was a mistake to venture into Diagon Alley during the holiday season. She should have known better, but, if pressed, Pansy considered herself somewhat desperate.

"Pansy!" Granger greeted cheerfully, pulling a bristled Pansy into a tight hug. It did make Pansy feel a bit better to see Granger's companions equally as taken aback as Pansy was. "It's good to see you. Are you well?"

Pansy adjusted her cloak and told Granger, "Peachy."

"Pear-fect!"

Granger's response startled a choked laugh out of Pansy. A choked, pained laugh. She needed to get out of there.

"Yes, well, I'm leaving," Pansy said, frowning at Granger's group.

"Perhaps we'll see you later?" Granger said. Were they meant to be blights upon her existence?

Pansy let out a noise of disgust and briskly left the shop. Surely she could make it through the rest of her outing without issue. Though, she pondered, it would probably be best to stay out of the jewelry shops, lest Granger's party decided to check each of them for whatever it was they were searching for. Surely there was a peddler in one of the alleys who could be convinced to pay a decent prize for the comb. She wouldn't be the only desperate soul during the holiday season.

She had set her sights on a woman frantically gesticulating as she argued with a nearby street vendor, but a familiar figure stumbling down an alley toward Knockturn Alley caught her attention. Pansy let out a string of curses under her breath as Potter turned a corner that would undoubtedly lead him to the Wyvern. Before she could follow after him, Granger flew the throng of shoppers, apologizing over and over again and she slipped past grounds. Pansy stilled, her brow furrowing, as she watched Granger take the same path as Potter. Sending a cautious gaze up and down the street, in case Granger's companions followed, Pansy trailed behind the two Gryffindors.

Knockturn Alley used to be a respectable area where one could walk without tripping over a bloody Gryffindor, Pansy thought as she followed Potter and Granger. Or, at the very least, they were interesting Gryffindors who drank like sailors and cursed everyone else in their House. She remembered when she was younger and out shopping for gifts with her mother during holiday seasons. They had stopped for tea at a little café nearby Mulpepper's. The first time, her mother had been surprised to see the owner was a Gryffindor from her own year. Pansy couldn't even remember what had irked the owner, but when Aster asked why A Gryffindor had opened a shop in Knockturn Alley of all places, the man went on a diatribe over Gryffindors. They visited semi-regularly after that.

Looking back on it, Pansy supposed she could chalk it up to Houses being pretty arbitrary: a classification for seven years of their life and then a general identification term for all the years after. Though, at the time, it somehow proved Gryffindors were the _worst_.

In the present, two-thirds of the Golden Trio were indeed headed for the Wyvern. They were hardly chummy, Pansy noted. Each time Granger reached for Potter, he jerked away from her. Which, truly, was a feat as he seemed to already be rather intoxicated. The time Granger did manage to catch Potter's sleeve, he tore his arm away from her so forcefully that he nearly knocked himself over in the process. For a moment Pansy thought about intervening. She knew what Potter could be like when he was drunk: he'd been in the Wyvern enough. But part of her wanted to see what would happen without her intrusion. She couldn't hear them, but their tense and rather aggressive body language told her more than they ever would.

They both stopped abruptly outside the building before the Wyvern. Pansy drew her hood and crept as close as she dared without drawing their attention. She had gotten as close as the small court just shy of the two when she realized their voices were garbled and mush to her ears. Of course Granger would have put up a charm if they were arguing. But, they were arguing, which she supposed was something.

Pansy drew deeper into the shadows when Granger threw her hands up and stormed away from Potter. The sound of Granger's boots clunking on the cobblestone told Pansy the charm had worn off, and when she moved back out into the street, she could hear Potter mumbling to himself. It was certainly slurred, but not warped in the sense a charm was in place.

"Everything good?" Pansy asked, keeping her hood drawn while drawing up to Potter.

"Nothing is ever good," Potter grunted in response.

"Tell me about it," Pansy replied. "It's the holiday season, and I can't sell a bloody hairpiece."

"'S'cos everyone wants ye to get yer lady a ring. 'Ain't it 'bout time, 'Arry?'" Potter rolled his eyes.

Pansy stood up straighter. How much would Potter have on him? She could sell him the comb easily if he had the money with him. Before he could sober enough to second guess buying a hairpiece with gemmed pansies adorning it.

"How about a French hair comb?" Pansy asked, pulling the thing from her pocket and unwrapping it to present Potter along with the slip of paper with the price the jeweler was willing to pay. "Crafted by one of the finest jewelers in Paris." She added, lying a bit, "I'd be willing to sell it you for half of what its worth."

Potter let out a low whistle as he stared at it.

"You seem like a good man who will give it to an even better woman," Pansy said, and Potter laughed dryly.

"Too good for me."

"Well, if she's too good and still kicks around you, there must be something of worth in you." Pansy gagged internally at her words. Who was she anymore.

"Let me think about it," Potter said and moved toward the Wyvern.

Pansy grabbed his arm, causing him to flinch away from her, but she held on. "Are you sure?" she asked in a casual tone that hid the desperation she felt. "It's one of a kind, truly, sir. Wouldn't you rather go home tonight able to say you have a gift rather than listen to another person tell you what you ought to get?"

Potter frowned at her, "Are you really so desperate to sell to a stranger on the street?"

"Almost, yes," Pansy answered quickly and honestly. "I would have afforded the craft the respect of selling it to a fine jeweler if I wasn't completely so."

She felt like he had stood there considering for what seemed like ages. What imbecile wouldn't buy something so well-crafted? It wasn't like Harry bloody Potter was hurting for money—though, Pansy reminded herself, her grandmother would hand over however much she desired so long as she asked. But Potter needed a gift, and she was basically begging him to take what she was offering.

When Potter finally grabbed a small pouch from inside his jacket, Pansy almost let out a sigh of relief. He dug around, counting Galleons out and a few Knuts before he had a sum just shy of what the jeweler had written. It took most of Pansy's willpower to remind herself to remain stoic. Sure, she was entirely desperate, but she didn't need to show it. So she hesitated when he told her he only had a portion of the amount she wanted.

"I can send you an owl with the remainder?" Potter suggested.

Pansy quirked her lips to the side for a moment before clicking her tongue. She handed over the comb to him.

"Lucky for both of us, I'm in a rather giving mood."

A giddiness washed over her as Potter left her in the middle of the street with a heavy handful of coin. Merlin. If she had known a drunk Potter was that easy to sell to, she would have upsold a piece of jewelry with each mug of drink he had at the Wyvern. Dumping the coin into her own pouch, Pansy grinned and set off again.

Maude Mulpepper was manning the front of the store when Pansy entered the small potion shop. The old woman nodded to Pansy but otherwise kept her attention on filing her nails. Pansy removed her hood and hovered near a display of potions for an upset stomach. She picked one of them up and swirled it around in the small vial. Draco had told her they were advertised as strong and efficient, but Maude watered the batches down and sold them at full price. It was a wonder how the Mulpeppers stayed in business or even out of trouble with the law. But, more often than not, Pansy thought activities in Knockturn Alley remained under the radar. As long as residents and business owners were stirring up trouble on an opposition-resurgence level, they were left to their own devices.

"Are you lost?" Maude Mulpepper asked Pansy after she moved through two more displays.

Pansy sneered at her, "Do I look lost?"

Maude stared back at her blankly.

"I need to speak with Mr. Black."

"He's busy."

"As am I."

"Not busy enough to quit loitering in my shop," Maude said and tucked her nail file away to cross her arms over her chest.

Pansy scowled down at the old woman, commenting that she would take her business elsewhere. She didn't really expect Maude Mulpepper to appease her, but Pansy was rather taken aback when the old woman simply waved goodbye. So she tsk-ed and strode out of the shop. It wasn't like she was going to purchase anything there anyway, and she could always wait to see Draco later. She just fancied the idea of visiting him while he was Mr. Black.

She was due to meet Nott at St. Mungo's at noon, but Pansy had plenty of time to kill before. She probably could have worked the morning at the Wyvern, but Bex decided he would man the bar until the evening when she could take over again. It left her with much more time than she really knew what to do with. Pansy had expected to take longer trying to sell the comb. She thought she would need to visit several shops before someone offered her a decent amount to be paid upfront. Finding Potter was a lucky break for her desperation.

So Pansy wandered the rather busy streets of Knockturn Alley. Not nearly as bustling as Diagon Alley, but Knockturn Alley hardly saw people out and about. The slightly unsettling air that had always hung in Knockturn Alley did not die with Voldemort. Even with the recent influx of new (and rather unwanted) people, something about the neighborhood stayed dark and warning. Pansy loved it. The feeling that there was some unsavory character hiding in the shadows delighted her in some way, especially since she knew it was more than likely just Tom. Honestly, a person was more like to be assaulted in Diagon Alley than in Knockturn Alley. But reputations don't just go away.

Pansy stopped her wandering when she came up to the small café she had visited with her mother. Nothing about it had changed as far as she could tell. The sign that hung over the entrance was faded but still invited passersby. Two candlelight lanterns hung on either side of the door, each rusting but weathering time. She burnt her finger on the left one when she was eight and curious if the firelight was real or magic. It was real and gave her the first burn of her life.

Inside had changed just as little as the outside. The wall behind the counter was lined with bookshelves displaying a wide array of coffees, teas, and knickknacks for sale. Pansy glanced around at the customers. Some elderly, some fresh out of school, and little ones with their parents. None of them gave her much attention aside from looking over to see who brought in the rush of cold air. The tables and chairs they sat at were also the ones Pansy remembered from her youth. She was sure management kept them up in some way, but Pansy could see the wear and tear on everything. It was nice, she thought. Everything around them had changed so much, but the little café remained a cozy little hideaway.

A man emerged from the kitchen. His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back, and there seemed to be a splash of flour on the right side of his close cut beard. He was the same Gryffindor who held a strong hatred for Gryffindors: Pansy would recognize him anywhere. There was much more grey in his hair than there had been last time she saw him, but his light grey eyes and the scar across his nose were still prominent. For his part, he appeared to recognize Pansy after a few beats. She supposed it was because she looked so much like her mother. A spitting image, really. It was something she had always hated growing up. Of course she loved her mother, and she thought Aster had a timeless beauty that anyone would be lucky to share. But she didn't want people to think that because she looked like Aster, she would be like Aster.

"Long time no see, kid," the owner said as he came up to the counter.

"I was feeling nostalgic," Pansy replied, taking off her gloves and pocketing them.

"How's your mum?" he asked while he wiped his hands off with a rag from behind the counter.

"I wouldn't know," she lied. "I think I heard whispers that she and father were in some city in South America."

"A damn shame," he muttered.

"Yes, well," Pansy sighed, "it's a bit of an expectation with wealthy families, isn't it? They could have married me off as soon as I graduated and then I would have only talked to them when I needed money for whatever charity my husband supported."

"Old blood wealthy, maybe."

Pansy hummed but made no comment.

"So, duck, feeling nostalgic enough for a cuppa?"

"Please," Pansy responded with a smile.

The owner told Pansy to take a seat, and he'd bring the tea to her when it was ready. There were several open seats, but Pansy spotted a familiar face and splash of red hair stuffed inside a cap.

Weasley raised her brows when Pansy settled into the seat across from her.

"I don't think you ever properly apologized for earlier," Pansy said by way of greeting.

"How insolent of me," Ginny grunted, returning her attention to the Daily Prophet.

"I suppose I was a bit hasty in demanding one."

"Haughty is probably a more fitting description."

"Ah, but what can you expect from someone who flourishes?"

"A decent apology."

"I'm sorry," Pansy conceded easily. "I was in a mood but should have been more aware of my surroundings."

Weasley snapped her paper shut and held Pansy's gaze.

"That almost sounded sincere."

"Well, I won't repeat it. It's hardly my fault if you missed the sincerity."

"I suppose it's the best I'm going to get out of Pansy Parkinson."

"I could have taken you to dinner to apologize, but you can't get a verbal apology and dinner."

"Ah," Ginny said with a small smile.

Pansy looked over at the people on the street to keep herself from smiling back. Ginny eyed Pansy curiously and a bit skeptically. Really, Pansy couldn't blame her. It had been a while since she felt comfortable being the same bold person people assumed Pansy Parkinson to be, and the act was a bit intoxicating. Even if Ginny Weasley was the girl she had to use. When the owner brought Pansy her tea, he frowned at her companion but said nothing other than the tea was on the house, for nostalgia's sake.

"Nostalgia's sake?" Ginny asked as Pansy took a sip.

"My mother used to take me here from time to time. She liked this place because the owner is a Gryffindor who hates Gryffindors."

"That's something."

"My mother's something," Pansy said with a grin.

Her grin quickly fell when a pair outside the shop caught her eye. Draco stood on the other side of the street with Granger. He was smiling about _something_. Granger's gloved hand briefly came up to his elbow, but Pansy thought perhaps her hand and his smile lingered for just a second too long. Long enough to make Pansy uncomfortable. Part of Pansy felt paralyzed when Granger motioned to the café. She wanted to flee out the back before they could see her, but another part wanted to stay, wanted them to see her. Draco looked content. Hermione bloody Granger had touched him, and he looked content.

Pansy startled when the pair started toward the shop. Her tea sloshed, most of it spilling and splattering on her gloves, and her chair made an embarrassingly loud sound when she stood abruptly.

"Parkinson!" her spontaneous companion called after her when Pansy took a beeline for the kitchen.

Images of splinched limbs kept Pansy from disapparating on spot, so she blindly roamed the side streets and alleys. She couldn't wrap her head around Draco and Granger. Couldn't figure out which of them was the fool in the situation. Or, perhaps, she was the fool. She had let him convince her on some level that working with Ginny Weasley was no big deal. And maybe it had been _okay._ The she-weasel was one person. One person who Draco seemed convinced was also hiding out in Knockturn Alley. And she was one person who Draco told Pansy about. Though late, he was honest with Pansy about working with her. How long had Granger been his dirty little secret, though? Long enough for him to feel comfortable getting tea with her.

Did Granger even know who she was getting tea with, Pansy wondered. She wanted to believe Granger was too clever to see through Draco's lies, but he had somehow managed to hoodwink an entire room of people they grew up with. If those who called Draco Malfoy a friend couldn't even tell, how could Hermione Granger? But it was far easier to be mad at Draco if Pansy suspected Granger could see what others didn't.

When her mind was somewhat settled, enough to concentrate, Pansy apparated and appeared in front of Nott's flat. She didn't really know what to do for another two hours before they were set to meet, and she didn't want to simmer alone in her anger out in the cold. It took a full minute of knocking before Padma Patil opened the door wrapped in a fleece throw.

"Merlin," Pansy grunted, pushing past Padma with an eye roll, "please tell me this day is a bloody dream."

"Theo didn't say—"

Pansy ignored the blushing woman. "Nott! Put some pants on: you have a guest."

Padma glance nervously at the couch, the back of which faced Pansy. She wasn't an idiot, though.

" _Merlin almighty,_ Nott. I'll make some tea. Please get dressed." Frowning at Padma, she added, "both of you."

She had just set the kettle on the stove when Nott walked into the kitchen, fully clothed and in front of an equally clothed Padma.

"I don't recall inviting you to my place beforehand," Nott said, grabbing a bowl of fruit from his fridge while Padma retrieved a bowls from the cupboard. It was disgustingly domestic of them.

Pansy glanced around, "Hm. I can't seem to find a fuck to give."

"Eggs?" Padma asked her.

Pansy blinked at her and then looked over at Nott.

"Darling," Nott addressed Padma, "if you want to start getting ready, I'll take care of breakfast." They shared a quick peck before Padma left them alone.

"I've lost my appetite."

"Well, I wasn't offering you breakfast anyway."

"It seems I'm doomed to be shocked by disgusting heterosexual relationships today," Pansy bemoaned and buried her face in her hands.

"Pansy, spare me your dramatics for one conversation."

She huffed, "I am not dramatic." When he didn't respond, she went on in a hushed tone, "Does Draco tell you much about what he does in Knockturn Alley?"

Nott shook his head. "Aside from making potions? I'm not entirely sure what you're getting at?"

"His day-to-day. Random thoughts. Who he talks to. Who he sees. Things like that."

Nott looked at Pansy like he couldn't wrap his mind around what she was really asking, so she let out an annoyed noise and asked him if Draco said anything about Hermione Granger. The question took Nott by surprise, and his initial response comforted Pansy a little. At least she wasn't the only one Draco was hiding things from.

"Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger?" Nott inquired. "Or Black and Granger?"

"Does it matter?"

"To be honest, if it's Draco, I don't quite know what Granger sees in him."

"What is Ron Weasley doing?" Pansy asked after recounted what she saw. "Doesn't he have anything to say about his girlfriend getting tea with a mongrel in Knockturn Alley?"

"If he knows, I'm sure he has loads to say; but I very much doubt he knows about much happening outside of the Ministry. He spends most of his time there, I hear."

Pansy sighed. "This all had been simpler when it was just me."

"Everything would be much simpler if you just returned to being Pansy Parkinson full-time."

"You know I can't do that," she snapped.

"I know, I know. Speaking of which…" he said as he dished eggs onto three different plates.

"I have more than enough with me," Pansy whispered. "It should take care of the first two payments."

"We'll take it to St. Mungo's after breakfast." Nott told her to grab the tea and added, "try to be nice to Padma, will you?" before leading Pansy out of the kitchen.

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 **So I definitely have the next chapter written already. It's pretty much all _Dramione_ , guys, which is what we're all about here. Soooo reviews and you get it in a rather speedy timeframe? Ehhhh?**


	9. Chapter 9

**I have absolutely no excuse for not posting this a while ago. It's just been sitting in Doc Manager.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: No.**

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Pansy was acting weird. Draco noticed it sometime during the first few days of December. He felt her eyes burning a hole into the back of his head when he wasn't looking; and, when he was looking, her face supported a carefully practiced blank look. Like he was some suitor telling her a ridiculous tale to showcase his wealth. Worse still, when he talked to her, the pleasantness she displayed was the same she would use with someone she genuinely did not want to be around her. Which, fine, he could handle if she was actively avoiding him. But Pansy wasn't. She came up to him when he worked the bar and asked how things were going at Mulpepper's since the lateral promotion. She even visited him at Mulpepper's as Violet. Pansy wanted something from him, that much was clear, but he didn't know what, and it seemed Pansy didn't know how to ask.

So Draco let her keep being weird. The longer she flipped back and forth and tried to figure out how to ask whatever was on her mind, the longer he wouldn't have to worry about answering. He had other things to keep him preoccupied.

Like Granger, who Draco was loathe to admit found her way to the front of his mind more and more. It wasn't one of those things where you slowly realize you think about someone more than you should. When in his life had he ever really cared to think about Granger? So when he woke up one morning in November, wondering if she was getting tea with him on break, the realization hit him like a curse. Granger was a parasite. She had somehow wormed her way into his new life and was slowly making herself a fixture there. He woke up thinking about her. A part of him felt disappointment if she didn't show up at the café during break. He enjoyed the muggle books she told him about (and even dropped heavy hints that it wouldn't be the worst thing for her to bring one or two of them by). And, on occasion, she was the last thing he thought about before falling asleep at night.

He cursed himself when he walked into a bookstore at the end of the first week of December. He had the day off from Mulpepper's, and Bex was helping Pansy at the Wyvern. So Draco had the entire day to himself, and for some Merlin unknown reason he thought it was a good idea to check out a book for Granger. She had brought him a few so this was repayment, he tried to rationalize. But that bitter voice in his head reminded him that all of the books Granger had given him were her own copies. Still, though, a bookstore wasn't the worst place to spend some time off. Draco glanced around at the people milling about. Even if it was a muggle store.

Draco sighed and tried not to make eye contact with any of the workers, who he had seen assaulting a few customers with offers of help. He didn't understand why they had to attack every few minutes. The store had signs everywhere. Signs with topics, signs with arrows, signs with names of authors. Were muggles really so foolish they couldn't follow simple and rather bold directions? 'Do you need help finding anything?' he heard a worker ask, and the patron answered, 'do you have any cookbooks?' Truly, Draco almost walked out. All the bloody muggle shopper had to do was turn around and see the bloody aisle stocked with cookbooks, but the bloody muggle worker actually walked the bloody muggle shopper the two steps it took to get there.

"Merlin," Draco grunted, finding the section he was looking for just fine by following the bloody directory. "How have muggles lasted so long?"

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and scanned the spines of the history books in front of him. Muggle bookstores had a selection, he'd give them that. Bookstores in Diagon Alley and elsewhere were more specific and for specialized interests. He wouldn't be able to walk into a store and find something on the impact of—he squinted at the title of one book—the Teapot Dome Scandal in one aisle and, glancing across the way, one on sex positions in the next. Draco cleared his throat and moved deeper into the aisle.

A book on the character he was looking for was situated in the far corner of the aisle on the middle shelf. The entire region only had a quarter of the shelf devoted to it, which Draco thought was rather ridiculous, but at least there was something. He thumbed through a few of the pages and flipped to the pictures at the center of the book. They remained still and lifeless. Though, he would be lying if he said he didn't find muggle pictures the least bit interesting. The book's price was printed on the back along with a series of black bars and a string of numbers. Draco frowned at it. He hadn't thought about payment. Would they take sickles?

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. He could always take it and run. He'd disapparate before the store even realized he'd taken it.

"Think they'll take galleons for that?" a familiar voice asked from beside him.

Draco glanced over at Granger who was leaning against a nearby pillar. He hummed and turned his attention back to the book.

"Hopefully sickles, at least," he replied.

She laughed at him, and he rubbed his hand over his mouth a few times to keep whatever he was feeling at bay.

"Here," Granger said with an outstretched hand, "let me pay for it."

Draco quickly whipped the book behind his back. "Forget about it."

"And how do you intend to pay for it?"

"You can't pay for it, Granger," Draco grunted, taking long strides away from her. He heard her laugh again as she followed after. "Don't you have something better to do? Don't you work?"

Granger caught up with him when he reached an aisle nearby the exit and grabbed his sleeve before he could close the distance between his location and a safe apparation point.

"Don't," she whispered harshly, clutching tighter when Draco tried to shake her off. "Just let me pay for it. Really, it's nothing." When Draco rolled his eyes, agitated, Granger added, "Look, they've got cameras everywhere. If you leave with that, they'll know you stole it. And maybe _you'll_ get away with it, but I'll be labelled an accomplice."

"You're daft."

"Maybe, but I happen to love this bookstore and will not risk being barred just because you're too proud to let me buy you the book."

"The book's not for me, Granger," Draco snapped.

Letting go of his sleeve, she made a quick grab for the book and took it easily. Her brow furrowed as she studied the title and then looked back at him.

"I thought…I thought you might like it," he said, scratching at the back of his neck. He looked at anything else but Granger when he noticed the faint blush on her cheeks. "As a repayment, of course, for all the books you've lent me."

Granger adjusted the satchel strap across her body, and she handed him the book back and laughed again. A nervous, anxious laugh. Not like the sounds he had grown accustomed to hearing from her. It was the first break from her usually happy and carefree demeanor that she had toted for the last few weeks. But it made Draco feel a little more grounded. The nervousness and anxiety matched what he felt, so it was comforting to know that, even if just a little bit, Granger felt it too on some level.

As quickly as her new laugh came, Granger's normal air returned. She took the book back from him and placed it on a nearby shelf before beckoning him to follow her.

"You know," Granger said after they had been walking around muggle London for a good ten minutes. "You don't have to buy me anything for the books I've loaned you. It's nice just having someone to talk about them with."

Draco watched her out of the corner of his eye as she kicked at something on the ground. He could smell the oranges of her shampoo or body soap or whatever, and he wondered if she could smell him. If so, what did he smell like? Did she recognize his scent in the same way he recognized hers? Draco scratched his cheek with his shoulder, surreptitiously trying to catch of whiff of himself. He thought he smelt like the Wyvern, which, he supposed, was a rather recognizable smell to anyone who had ventured in.

"I know," Draco muttered after a few moments of silence between them.

Whatever he was expecting Granger to do or say, shoving his shoulder was not on the list.

"Look at you! Venturing out into muggle London on your own volition. Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?"

"Are you leading me anywhere in particular, Granger? Do I need to fear for my safety?"

"Oh, hush," Granger chuckle, lightly ramming into him. She didn't move back away from him, though, and Draco didn't comment on it.

She lead him to a small, hole in the wall café in a quiet alley off a busy street. Fairy lights lined the ceiling while a few tables supported tea candles, so the entire room was cast in low, warm lighting. People had written all over the wooden walls and other had etched messages into it. Draco ran his fingers along a carving of England and something in a language he didn't recognize. The owners glossed over the walls every once in a while. He could feel the difference between the two carvings.

Granger's fingers grazed his as she squeezed past him to get to the front counter, telling him to pick a table. He watched her for a moment before picking one away from the window and away from the few muggles who had apparently set up camp at the front tables. Granger fidgeted with her hands, twisting them together, clasping them, stuffing them in her pockets while she waited behind three other customers. She was probably cold, Draco reminded himself.

"This is my favorite coffeehouse," Granger told him when she joined him with two cups of tea a few moments later. "Don't get me wrong, the one in Knockturn Alley is wonderful, but this is my own little corner of the world."

"It's cozy," Draco replied, sniffing his tea—an Irish Breakfast blend—before adding a splash of milk and a cube of sugar. He glanced over at the muggles talking muggle politics at the front, "Though the view is a little unusual."

"You learn to block them out," she said with a smile. "I usually come early in the morning, when they first open and before I have to work. There's rarely anyone but me and the opener here. It's nice."

"That's what I like about Mulpepper's," he confessed. "Just me and my thoughts in the backroom."

Granger looked at him, considering, as she blew lightly on her tea.

"What are you going to do when being Mr. Black no longer fulfills your sense of repentance? Do you and Pansy talk about what happens after?"

Draco licked his lips and frowned down at the liquid in his cup. He didn't really care to think about what came next. It was easier to live each day without worrying about his future plans. Though, part of him assumed he would just rejoin society like he hadn't been slumming in Knockturn Alley. He could silence questions about his time away with a glare, and people would leave him be if he took up the Malfoy stoicism like his father.

"I hadn't given it much thought," Draco told her. "What's the use of worrying about that when I need to make sure bills are paid?"

"Everyone has to balance those concerns. Careers, relationships, bills, the future…we can't just pretend any given one doesn't exist."

"Surely there's something you suppress to get on with your life," he pressed the conversation away from his issues. "Even the Great Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of Her Age, has to be avoiding something."

"I mostly try to avoid getting kicked out of bookstores and putting too much milk or sugar in my tea. And karaoke."

She smiled when he gave her an unimpressed look.

"Look, I'm dealing like everyone else. But…" she trailed off and sighed. "Never mind," Granger added softly, looking at where his left hand rested on the table.

"Is keeping my company part of _your_ repentance?"

"No," she said seriously and held his gaze, "I like getting to know you. I don't spend time with people I don't want in my life."

"Merlin, Granger," Draco huffed, pressing his fingers into the back of his neck and looking around the room nervously as if everyone in the room was watching them. Merlin, she was foreword.

"Don't worry," she chuckled, "I'm not here to steal you away from Pansy. I just enjoy talking to you."

They sat in silence as they finished their tea. Granger flipped through a small book she had pulled from her purse, and Draco took in the rest of the room while waiting for the blush at his neck to go away. It wasn't that he thought about Granger like _that_. He just wasn't used to women talking to him in the way that she did. He wasn't used to anyone really wanting to get to know him like she seemed to. Sure, they wanted to know all the superficial things about his life; but how many of them wanted to engage in discussion with him like Granger did? Even Pansy wasn't particularly interested in picking his brain about why he was in Knockturn Alley and what he was hoping to accomplish. Or when he'd accomplish it.

"Do you have time for one more stop?" Granger asked after a while. He could smell the orange on her breath from the tea she drank. She was going to ruin oranges for him.

"I suppose."

"Good! I think it'll make you feel better."

"I feel fine."

"Just humor me, Malfoy."

"Black," he corrected, though he probably didn't need to in the company of muggles.

Granger rolled her eyes in good humor and corrected herself.

It was a half an hour walk from the coffeehouse before they apparently reached Granger's endpoint. The walk was quiet with Granger only breaking the silence every so often to tell Draco about something that happened from the last time they saw each other. He briefly mentioned how weird Pansy had been acting when Granger asked about her, but the matter wasn't pressed, which Draco appreciated. The last five minutes, though, were silent as the weaved through the muggles on the street.

Honestly, Draco thought this may have been the longest he'd spent somewhere where muggles were the majority. They looked so unaffected by everything around them. The muggle world was falling to pieces, and all the little ants wandered from place to place as if nothing was wrong. Or, at least, they appeared so. And, really, how different were witches and wizards from them as far as turning a blind eye was concerned? How many of his own people had kept their own nose to the ground and popped from place to place without blinking an eye to the rumors Voldemort had returned? How many of his own people refused to believe it until they were forced to bow or saw the green flash of the Killing Curse coming toward them?

Granger pulled him out of his musings by steering him up the path to a small knickknack shop and leading him inside. The array of colors attracted his attention first. It was how everything in the shop appeared to be organized. Random items grouped by reds, oranges, yellows, and so on. Within the colors, Draco couldn't see a clear pattern. Maybe things that were broken, things that were slightly broken, and things that would function well enough before breaking. Whatever the reason, the interior was vivid. Draco lingered at the purple station while Granger spoke with the woman behind the counter. A Squib, he could tell.

"Black," Granger called.

Draco nodded to the Squib and followed after Granger again. She lead him past a dark velvet curtain behind the counter and down a short, narrow corridor. His throat felt constricted, and Draco swore his heart was pounding faster than it had in a long time. He hated small spaces. Even more, he hated small spaces with girls who smelt like oranges.

Once they cleared the small corridor, they entered a room about the same size as the front of the shop. Three curtains sectioned off areas at the back of the room, and the front half was made up as a small flat. A bookshelf and an arm chair shoved into one corner. A telly and a crate, which seemed to serve as a coffee table, were positioned in front of a little loveseat. And two elves were situated in the kitchen area: one dishing up something grotesque looking while the other poured tea. Draco immediately recognized the stench that hung in the air. It was the ointment he had made for Granger to go with the withdraw potions.

"Winky," Draco said and Granger smiled.

"Winky," Granger addressed the one pouring tea, "this is Mr. Black. He's the one who made the medicines for you."

"Black?" the other elf huffed.

Granger's smile remained in place despite the twitch at the corner of her lips.

"Mr. Black, this is Kreacher. Kreacher, Mr. Black."

"Black?" the gruff elf repeated.

"I would be very grateful if that's how you knew him by." Kreacher, though he nodded slightly, rolled his eyes in an overly dramatic way that Draco couldn't help but think of his own father and Pansy. "We were in the area, and I thought Mr. Black might want to see all the progress you've made, Winky."

Winky was tiny, Draco noted as she hesitantly approached them. Elves were rather small to begin with, but Winky seemed even more so. Draco wasn't entirely sure her little legs wouldn't snap under the weight of the rest of her—which didn't seem that much to begin with. She wore a frayed blue skirt, stained white blouse, and a little blue pillbox hat that matched her skirt.

"Winky thanks Mister Black," the elf said with a quick and clumsy curtsey. Draco almost laughed at how ridiculous and unnecessary the action was, but he figured it would be an insult to Winky's sincerity.

"I'm just glad to help," Draco replied.

"Mister Black is kind," Winky responded, and Kreacher huffed.

"Kreacher is making meal for Winky. Miss Hermione and Mister Black must stay for lunch."

"Oh, we couldn't," Draco answered quickly, trying not to glance at whatever Kreacher had made. When Winky's face fell, he added, "I've promised Miss Granger a personally prepared meal today."

He could see Granger smirking beside him. But Kreacher scowled at him. The elf looked at Draco like Draco was the scum of the Earth, and the longer he remained under the elf's gaze, the more he felt like scum. It was unnerving, and Draco nearly sprinted out when Granger said her goodbyes to the elves. Even the small corridor was preferable to Kreacher.

"Was that better than stealing a muggle book?" Granger asked when they were back on the streets of muggle London.

"Is she really doing any better?" he responded, glancing over his shoulder at the shop. "She didn't look so great."

"Well, it's still pretty early, isn't it? But she's wearing clean clothes and taking tea with Kreacher, which is more than she was doing a month ago. I think it's progress, don't you?"

"I don't know, Granger." Draco shrugged and received a frown from her. "Have you ever felt that rush from doing something you weren't supposed to?"

"Now that you mention it, I do recall a rather good punch that gave me a brilliant rush."

Draco barked out a laugh without meaning to. "My nose bled off and on all night because of you." He fiddled with a string on his cuff, thinking of the end of that year and the summer that followed. "All the drama from Third Year seems so light compared to everything that happened after," Draco added. He noticed Granger's hands fidget at her sides. "Do you ever wonder how things may have gone if he hadn't risen? Maybe your bloody cat killed Pettigrew and then where would he have been?"

"You don't think someone else would have done it?" Granger whispered, and Draco could hear the tenseness in her tone. "One of the Death Eaters? Your father?"

"No," Draco said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "My father benefitted a lot more when he was a rumor, and Father knew it."

Granger cleared her throat after Draco fell into silence once again. "So a meal, huh? I'll feel rather cheated if you don't."

"Did you see what they had prepared?"

"It's not so bad if you don't breath in and forget it's made from anchovies and bone meal."

"That's vile."

Granger grinned at him. "Well, they're not particularly fond of what I call cuisine."

"What do you call cuisine?" Draco asked, turning aimlessly down a street with paper lanterns zigzagged from one end to the other.

"I'm rather fond of Indian food. Prefect a Vindaloo recipe, and you've found your way to my heart." Granger hummed and looked off. "I wouldn't be upset over some Thai curry soup, though, either."

"You have some very exotic tastes."

"I have great taste," Granger laughed, smacking him lightly. "So can you actually cook, or was that all for show?"

"I am a fantastic cook," Draco said with a smile. "We hosted parties all the time when I was younger," he went on, "and just to be a brat I would follow the kitchen staff around and pester them for tastes or ask the chefs what they were doing and why. Or, if my grandmother visited, the kitchen was an easy hideaway. For all their whining, I think the kitchen staff liked me."

"Of course," Granger commented. "Who wouldn't like a troublesome little Draco."

"I wasn't that bad," he muttered, though bit his tongue thinking of the Dark Mark on his arm.

"Not anymore," Granger said. "In fact—and I'll deny it if you tell anyone—you're pretty good company."

Before he could respond, Granger glanced at the watch on her wrist and then clapped her hands.

"Well, this has been quite the adventure, but I'm afraid my entire schedule does not revolve around stalking you," she told him with a smile. "I expect you to make good on that promise, too, or I'll tell Kreacher you want a great helping of his fine cuisine."

"I'll see you later, Granger."

She smiled again and gave his arm a squeeze before moving a few paces away and disapparating without a sound.

"Fuck," Draco grunted when he apparated back to the Wyvern with the smell of oranges still lingering.

The lanterns on the block were lit, and he could hear the Wyvern's patrons from where he stood across the street. He could see Pansy at one of the tables, her arms crossed over her chest and a blank expression on her face. Her favorite brute, Dove, was seated at the end of the bar, which Bex seemed to be manning.

"Fuck," he grunted again when he entered the tavern and saw who was at the table Pansy was at. He pushed past drunk patrons stumbling from table to table, but he kept an eye on Ginny who seemed just as sloshed as some of the others in the Wyvern.

"The fuck is Ginny Weasley doing here?" Draco whispered to Bex as he claimed the stool beside Dove.

Bex glanced over toward Ginny and shrugged. "She was lookin' for someone but then ordered a mug and kept 'em coming."

"No one's asked her if she's all right?"

Bex sneered at Draco, "What do I care?"

When Bex moved to the other end of the bar, Dove said, "Potter normally comes in 'round the time she showed."

"Harry Potter?"

"Aye."

"Harry Potter is a regular here?"

Dove frowned at Draco. "Ye out of yer head today?"

"Sorry," he muttered, "it's been a day."

"Ain't every day."

Draco hummed and looked back over at Ginny. Pansy said something which made the girl stick her tongue out at Pansy, who rolled her eyes and left Ginny be. Pansy sported a deep scowl as she approached the bar.

"This used to be a respectable establishment," she said. "Now we got riff raff every other night running our best questionable characters out. Poor Dove won't have anyone to rough up at this rate."

"I'm sure he'll get by, Vi," Draco answered.

"You say that now, but look at him." Pansy waved a hand at the brute, who grinned toothily. "It'd be a damned shame to let those beefy muscles go to waste."

"We could prop him in the shadows and scare people drunk off their arses."

"I'll bark," Dove added.

Pansy pouted and put a hand to her heart, "You two really know how to cheer a lass up." But then her expression soured, and she shoved Draco roughly, "deal with the she-weasel."

"Oh, let her be," Draco said dismissively. "What harm can a drunk Ginny Weasley do?"

"Besides," Draco went on when Pansy moved behind the counter to prepare a round of drinks for one of the tables, "if you can handle a drunk Harry Potter, surely this one will be cake."

Pansy forcefully set the glasses in her hands down, and she levelled Draco with a glare as he looked on smugly. Whatever she was planning on coming back with, she didn't vocalize. Instead she snatched the glasses and stormed to the opposite side with Bex. Though, she did throw heated looks at him from time to time when she could but otherwise ignored him as the night went on and those in the tavern dwindled to just the two of them and Ginny.

A the end of the night when they were twenty minutes past closing, Pansy looked pointedly at Draco, her hands on her hips and mouth drawn in a thin line. He rolled his eyes at her and assured her that he would take care of Ginny. Pansy seemed skeptical for a moment before conceding and taking the day's earnings with her. Draco watched her leave the room and waited until he heard their flat door slam shut behind her. When he was sure that she wasn't coming back down, he grabbed a glass of water with a slice of lemon and a slice of lime.

Ginny's nose was red, he noted, as he slide into the booth across from her. She glanced up at him and gave a small dry laugh. Draco pushed the water toward her, which she accepted without comment or a word of thanks. Though, he didn't expect either. She just swiped her fingers under her eyes agitatedly and passed him the mug she had been drinking out of. Honestly, Draco wasn't sure how to comfort her. He could talk Pansy or his mother out of an episode with no problem, but what could be possibly say to someone like Ginny Weasley?

"Are you all right?" he asked lamely.

"I don't normally drink," she replied.

"You don't have you justify yourself."

"I know you probably think I'm silly," Ginny told him. "Probably a little nutty. Percy thought I was mad when I started working at Mulpepper's. And I think on some level, everyone did. 'You could work anywhere, Ginny, why Knockturn Alley?' 'You'll get a reputation, Ginny.' 'Is that really a respectable business, Ginny?' I can hardly blame them, can I?" She looked at Draco, but he remained silent. "Hermione and Harry work for the Ministry. Ron is on the up-and-up. Even Mum has a column in Witches Weekly. And I'm working in a skeevey potion shop for a skeevey woman who should have been jailed decades ago."

Ginny began cackling with laughter between sips of water. Draco had a feeling he knew where this was going. He recognized the look in Ginny's eyes and the underlying sour expression her laughter was hiding. It was something he and Pansy struggled with. It was something Hermione not so subtly tried to draw out of him. Draco didn't know what he was going to do if Ginny really was leading the conversation in that direction.

"Harry drinks," she confessed. "A lot. More than what is socially acceptable. We don't talk about it, but we both know it's a problem. And I see him make slow attempts to curb it. He'll go for a jog if he feels the need to drink; but sometimes he can't bring himself to leave the house and will just drink muggle vodka while reading an old Russian novel.

"The War took its toll on all of us in different ways, I think. I feel like I don't know how to process all my memories and everything associated with them. And it seems like everyone I've known has been making progress and moving on. But I'm just...running away? Hiding from my problems in Knockturn Alley?"

There was a pit in Draco's stomach, and he wasn't sure he would be able to answer if she asked him a question directly.

"Even bloody Pansy Parkinson has moved on, and she was ready to give Harry over to Voldemort. How does that not weigh on someone's conscious? Her family wasn't even associated with the Death Eaters." Ginny's brow furrowed. "And then I feel awful for her, because, truthfully, how many people thought the same thing? How many people were so tired of war and death and just wanted it all to end? One life to save...some."

Ginny shook her head.

"Terrible things happen, and the world moves on." She glanced at the mug Draco was cradling. "I'm just not strong enough to keep up with it apparently."

"That's rubbish," Draco responded quickly. She sighed. "We're all working through things in our own way at our own pace," he added.

Ginny scoffed, "what do you know? You weren't even here for the war."

Draco stared at Ginny for moment then snatched the cap off his head before he could decide against it or, really, before he could process he was going to do it. Ginny startled a little bit when he did so. In the months they had known each other as Ginny and Mr. Black, Draco had never been without his cap. He avoided eye contact as he ran his hands over his hair, ruffled it, and then combed his fingers through it until the last dark strand disappeared.

"We're all coping," he told her without the usual gruffness or tone he took on as Black.

Ginny's expression was blank. Her gaze had not left him, but he couldn't even begin to read her. Part of him hoped she would be livid. Part of him hoped she would storm out. Mostly, though, he hoped she would feel better-even if it was just a small bit.

"Fuck," Ginny said after a while and then repeated, " _fuck_."

"I know."

"I've worked with you for months."

"I know."

Ginny ran her hands through her hair and rested her elbows on the table as she leaned forward slightly. She squinted at him as if she was trying to decide if she was just drunk and hallucinating all of this. _Merlin, if only_.

"Fuck," Draco groaned softly.

"I know!" Ginny exclaimed, slamming her hands on the table.

" _Shut it_ , will you?" he snapped.

"I need…" Ginny looked around like a cornered animal. "I need to get out of here." She pulled her own cap on and snatched up her cloak before scrambling out of the booth.

"Ginny-"

"Yeah, I got it. Mum's the word," she said, staring at him for a few beats before hurrying out the door as fast as her drunken feet would take her.

Draco slumped back in his seat and rubbed his hands over his face when the door shut heavily behind her. These bloody Gryffindors would be the death of him.


End file.
